


Holy Blood

by Milchtee, Tennyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood Addiction, Blood Drinking, Cas and his beautiful wings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Other, POV Alternating, Prince of Hell!Dean, References to Torture, Slow Burn, Supernatural Reverse Big Bang Challenge, UST, and then RST, bottom!Dean, intentional anachronisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 04:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5729842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milchtee/pseuds/Milchtee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tennyo/pseuds/Tennyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the Prince of Hell, heir to Lucifer. When Abaddon attempts to kill Dean in an attempt for the throne, Dean escapes and nearly dies from his wounds.</p><p>Castiel is a newly appointed captain of his angelic garrison. When there is demonic activity on Earth, he joins a small group of soldiers to investigate. He finds Dean on the brink of death, and in spite of his own misgivings, feeds Dean his own blood in order to save him. </p><p>Both on the run from their own kind, they learn to get along, what it's like to be human, and to love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, finally got everything posted after having some major computer issues.
> 
> Much thanks to Milchtee for the awesomest art ever!  
> Please visit her [tumblr to see all the gorgeous art](http://casterelle.tumblr.com/post/137402681453/reverse-bang-2015-holy-blood-this-is-the-art-for)  
> in one place!  
> She's also listed as co-author because many of the ideas for this fic came DIRECTLY from her.  
>   
> Still having computer issues, but we have art actually in the fic now! Two pieces bookending chapter 1  
> As usual, a simple prompt turned into a monster of a fic. Much thanks to Elizabeth1985 for the beta work, and the Agincourt Agitators DM over on Twitter for their support.
> 
> If you feel I need to add a tag or warning, please let me know, and as always comments are greatly appreciated!

Atop a rocky hill, floating in a red, hazy atmosphere, sits a castle. Its black spires soar into the cloudless and sunless sky, windows gaping dark. Hideous, disfigured demonic guards patrol the entrance. Deep inside, there is a throne. It is shaped from skulls and bones, cushioned with pillows made from the skin and hair of Hell’s enemies.

Slouched upon this throne is a very bored young man. Leaning to his left, right leg draped over an armrest, head propped up by his fist and supported by the other armrest, he listens to what feels like endless reports. He hates this part of the day, and awaits being able to escape. Today he gets to go topside and look up at the sun.

His crown starts to slip, its black, twisted spines shifting to a precarious angle. With one finger, he pushes it up and overcompensates to the other side, hoping to avoid it happening again. The teardrop-shaped ruby dangling below the miniature jewel-eyed skull that adorns the crown swings with the movement. Absently, he flicks at the gold chains on the front of his black silk blouse.

The demon who’d been reporting on… Hell if he knows, he wasn’t paying attention, turns to leave, and his Advisor faces him with a stack of scrolls as a servant appears with a tray of writing and sealing implements. Joy. The day’s duties are almost over.

“My Prince,” says the advisor, who bows his head and presents the day’s scrolls, “Just a few more orders of business and you can go forth on your journey.”

Grumbling, the prince sits up and reaches for the nearest scroll. Best to get this over with, he thinks with a sigh. “You know Crowley, I always find it amusing that even the ruler of Hell must be tortured as well. One would think me immune to such punishments.”

“Very funny, Dean,” says Crowley, straightening up and smoothing down the dark silk cravat at this throat. “You know that I only bring you the items that demand your attention or require an official seal and signature.”

“Oh, so that’s why I sit through all those boring reports for what feels like forever?”

Crowley gives him a look, and Dean quiets. He knows, the masses must be allowed some access to the Heir of Hell. Otherwise, the denizens get restless. It’s especially important before one of his trips to Earth, keep them quiet until he returns. So he resigns himself to reading documents, then signing and pressing his signet to warm wax the color of venous blood.

As soon as the last document is signed, and the servant with the tray vanishes, Dean is off the throne. Crowley snaps his fingers, and another servant appears, holding a long velvet coat with a fur collar. He looks on with disapproval as the servant helps Dean into the garment and adjusts the fit. Gold silk sashes are arranged just so, and when he’s finally shooed away, there isn’t a speck of lint on the light-absorbing black fabric.

“You know I don’t approve of your little visits,” Crowley remarks as Dean straightens his crown. “You should have outgrown this _sentiment_ you have for humanity years ago.”

Dean ignores him and strides to the large double doors at the end of the throne room, awaiting the guards that will escort him to and through the portal to Earth. He’s heard all of this before, and will not let Crowley’s attitude ruin what should be a pleasant couple of days as soon as he steps into the fresh air of Earth.

The doors open, and four guards escort Dean to his destination. Each of the guards carry polearms, and have wickedly sharp blades at their waists. As soon as the portal is reached, they close around him, and it makes Dean uneasy. This is new, and he doesn’t trust new.

He turns to see another demon approaching: Abaddon, Knight of Hell. She’s one of the few allowed to keep a human-like form, and her red hair cascades over one shoulder, her fitted leather uniform showing off curves that might be enticing to a man that doesn’t know what she is. Wide, depthless black eyes pin him in place as she approaches, a smile on her red lips.

“The prince is going to visit his whore human mistress?” She drags a long, red nail down Dean’s breastbone, and he turns his head in disgust.

It was Crowley’s idea to come up with the excuse of a mistress, in order to protect the real reason for Dean’s visits to earth: his younger brother. Dean sacrificed his life for Sammy, and it’s the last piece of humanity he is willing to part with before Ascending as Hell’s King.

“I’ve every right to do as I please during leisure time, Abaddon.” He tilts his head to look down his nose at her. “My apologies at your feelings of inadequacy.”

Her lip curls at his remark, and she flicks her fingers at the guards still surrounding Dean. Suddenly, two weapons press at his back, and two blades are aimed at his throat.

“Oh, that’s where you’re mistaken, Dean.” Abaddon slips a stiletto blade from its sheath, and taps it on his shoulder. “I have no sense of _inferiority_ at your presence, only the kind of irritation one might have for an intruding rodent.”

Dean’s hands ball into fists. This isn’t the first time a demon has challenged his position, but it is the first time a _Knight_ has done so, and to his face, at that. He clenches his jaw as she draws blood below his collarbone with the tip of her dagger, and he manages to suppress a gasp as he realizes she’s using a weapon that could _kill_ _demons_. And the guards are obviously under her orders. This is so very bad.

In an attempt to play it cool, Dean tucks his chin down and looks up at Abaddon with quirked brow, hands clasped at the small of his back. “So, what? You going to rough me up? Raise the alarm to have half of Hell down here in an instant?”

With a smirk, Abaddon uses her dagger to lift one of the ends of Dean’s gold silk sashes, and rubs the material between her fingers. “Dear boy. You are still so young, naïve, and foolish.”

Wrapping the sash around her hand, she pulls Dean up against her, and he can smell the sulfur on her breath. “You’re going to die on Earth, and we’ll blame it on the angels. There will be a gloriously bloody battle in your honor, and I will use the opportunity to take the throne.”

She gestures at the guards with her chin, and one of the polearms is removed from Dean’s back, presumably so they can open the portal. All he needs is an opening. Dean grins at Abaddon, and spreads his hands out at his sides.

“But I’m the destined heir! The one who’s supposed to lead Hell to victory over Heaven!” He gives her a sideways glance, “What’s the matter, Abby? Getting forgetful in your old age?”

She snarls, and pushes Dean hard enough that the guard behind him is forced back. “Prophesies are garbage, and can be twisted to suit a need. I’m sure the ensuing battle after your death will be enough to convince the demons that my ascension is what was actually prophesied. After all, Hell isn’t known for its free thinking.”

A thudding whoosh behind him tells Dean the portal’s been activated. He’ll have to act now, or miss his chance. Luckily, the guards have turned to look at the portal. Using their distraction, Dean grabs one of the blades from the front guards, before slitting its throat. Not wasting a second, he flips the blade to neatly impale the guard behind him, all before even Abaddon can react. Pushing the falling guard onto the one who opened the portal, that leaves one left, and Abaddon, who surges forward with her thin dagger. Dean neatly parries it, narrowly avoiding a shave with the guard’s blade.

Backing toward the portal, he sees the other guard toss aside the limp body of his comrade, and swing a fist. Unfortunately, dodging will put him in the path of that damn dagger; so he takes the hit to the jaw, and uses the momentum to twist toward the guard with the blade. The weapon grazes his thigh, but Dean gets in a good swing and takes out an eye.

Abaddon twirls that wicked dagger and lunges. Dean can’t dodge completely, and he feels the sting in his side. Focused on keeping from getting stuck with Abaddon’s blade again, Dean doesn’t see the pole weapon coming for his head until he’s almost knocked to the floor by the blow to his temple. Now _that_ makes him see stars, and his knees buckle. He’s going to have to get out of here if he’s going to survive this.

Dean uses his trip towards the floor to sweep up the other dropped polearm, and manages to impale the guard bleeding from an eye socket. Then he kicks at the kneecaps of the one who whacked him twice, and the last guard falls to the floor. Above him, Abaddon reaches up with both hands on the stiletto dagger to plunge it into his skull. Dean dodges to the right, and lands on the body of the impaled, one-eyed guard. This time, the dagger grazes his shoulder blade.

When he manages to get to his feet, Dean sees that Abaddon is blocking the swirling portal, and he can hear the sound of others approaching. He shakes out his arms. “Sounds like I got backup coming.”

“Yes,” Abaddon gives a twisted half smile. “Mine.”

Shit. He’s already bleeding from unhealable wounds caused by special blades meant to kill demons. Things are going from bad to worse, and Dean takes in his surroundings for a solution. While he’s been trained to use just about every weapon that exists in Hell, he’s but one man. How did Abaddon pull this off, get so many on her side?

Dean takes a deep breath and swipes at the blood trickling down from his temple. Abaddon isn’t even holding a fighting stance, assuming she’s won. But Dean slips the toe of his boot under the one polearm that isn’t sticking out of something, and catches it. He rushes Abaddon, who’s caught by surprise. Using his greater mass and momentum, Dean causes her to collapse back, and performs a reverse throw, flinging himself over Abaddon and into the portal. He reaches out with his bloody hand and smears the side of the opening as he passes, hoping it’s enough to disrupt the sigils and close it behind him.

He lands in a forest clearing, and quickly makes his way as far from the portal as he can before they reopen it. Still a little dizzy from getting whacked upside the head and the air getting knocked out of him from his landing, Dean checks himself over. Shoulder stings, but works okay. The wound at his side is bleeding more than he likes. Breeches ruined by the gash at his thigh, but it’s barely a scratch to his skin. Jaw’s sore, and the head wound is going to cause one hell of a headache.

Looking around, Dean decides the road is the obvious path, and regardless of how far he makes it, they will be able to catch up to him. So off into the woods he dashes.

That’s the thing about forests. They’re full of bushes, and brambles, and low-hanging branches that catch on everything. Burrow-holes covered with leaves and detritus threaten to snap ankles, and his long coat gets caught on everything, the sashes hopelessly torn. With a sigh, he slips the velvet from his shoulders, and keeps moving.

After a while, the thought strikes him that he’s managed to keep the crown on his head during all this. The same thing that tries to slip off his head when he’s bored has kept itself firmly in place during that whole skirmish. Dean giggles at the thought. Maybe it’s sentient?

The sound of a twig snapping causes Dean to turn his head, which makes him lose his footing and fall to his knees. If it wasn’t for his knee-high leather boots, his gray silk breeches would have bloody holes there. He looks down to see they’ve gotten torn and stained anyway. Huh, that’s a lot more blood than the last time he checked. Looking back, Dean can see he’s left a messy trail even the stupidest demon could follow.

As if the damn universe is reading his mind, Dean hears the bray of a Hellhound. Shit. He’s weakened from blood-loss, possibly lost in the middle of the woods, and they’ve released Hellhounds to find him. Dean swallows, and forces his brain to think of a way out of this. Thought is growing sluggish, and he knows that’s a bad sign.

Signs. Sigils. He can use a sigil to mask his presence. But his trail will still lead them right to him. Shit, does he still have enough energy to pull off relocation? Using demonic power to pop from one place to another is draining on a normal day. Should have thought of that in the first place. Well, he does have a head wound and all. Speaking of, it’s throbbing like a drum, and making it really hard to concentrate. Shit, they’re getting closer, and Dean’s kneeling in the mud in the middle of a forest, bleeding, an army of Abaddon supporters coming after him.

Focus. Dean takes a deep breath, and tries to tune out his various aches. He pictures a lake. It’s one he’s seen before, during a visit to his brother. It’s calm, with the sun shining and glinting off the water, thick green grass along its edge.

Dragging his finger against his bloody side, Dean traces a sigil on the back of his free hand, and concentrates. He’s only gotta do this once. Eardrums pop as he lands near the body of water, and he nearly collapses in relief, drained with the effort that took. But he needs to find a place to draw the concealing sigil.

He manages to stumble to the low fence that borders this side of the lake, and he steps over a fallen beam, landing at the water’s edge. He leans against the support post, and once again traces a sigil with his own blood, this time onto the wood. Task completed, Dean whispers the words that activate it, and his hands fall to his sides. Perhaps if he just closes his eyes and rest a bit? The sun feels so warm on his face.

As Dean falls unconscious, his relaxing body slumps to one side. Booted feet slip into the water and drag him further down. Water soon laps at the bloodied fabric that hides the still-bleeding wound at his side.

* * *

 

At a door in a stark white hallway, a warrior stands uncomfortably. His large wings, feathers the color of midnight, twitch at his back. Running a hand through his hair, he checks his armor over before rapping knuckles on the door.

“Come in!” a sweet, melodic voice calls from the other side after a breath. Jaw clenched, the warrior twists the doorknob and lets himself in. The room on the other side is less stark, even though the walls are still glaring white. But there is a desk made of a honey-colored wood, and there are shelves full of colorful little trinkets. At the desk sits a slender woman with coppery red hair, and a flowing green gown. Her wings, mottled pink at the crest, with a white stripe and black flight feathers, fan out in briefly in greeting. The warrior frowns at her garb, as he’s used to seeing his Colonel dressed in more warrior-appropriate clothes.

“Sit Castiel,” she says, waving at a chair that matches the desk, with a multicolored cushion on the seat. He obeys, and takes a moment to adjust his armor in this new sitting position.

“So,” she says after a moment, “How are you enjoying your new position as Captain of our Garrison?”

Castiel looks up at her, frown still firmly in place. “Like they’re just waiting for an excuse to demote me, Colonel.”

She pouts at him. “Quit calling me that! I’m on desk duty, and we’re family. Besides, you wouldn’t have gotten the promotion if you didn’t deserve it, so don’t be so harsh on yourself.

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re my sister, Anael. Somehow I doubt that your commanders appreciated you using your influence in order to promote me.”

She waves his words away with a careless gesture. “You’ve always had the knack for getting in trouble by doing what is _right_ , Castiel. It’s not your fault not everyone can see that.”

Castiel avoids rolling his eyes. Anael wasn’t there when he got punished the last time. The thought of the gleaming spike aiming for the corner of his eye makes him shudder. It’s time to change the subject.

“When is the meeting with the Archangels?” The regular meetings that the Archangels hold is one of the few things that will make Anael wear a dress.

“Later today. Although as soon as it’s over, I’ll be changing into my usual shirt and trousers. Dresses use too much fabric.”

Her attitude toward formalwear makes the corners of Castiel’s mouth turn up. Anael has always held strong feelings about formalwear among the elite angelic Host. If she could get away with it, she’d wear her armor to meetings.

“Is there a reason you called me here, Anael?”

While Castiel loves visiting his sister, there are tasks that need to be completed, rosters to oversee, Patrol reports— His thoughts are cut short when Anael holds out an object. It’s a stick with a small wooden cup on the end, and there is a ball attached to it with a string. Somebody found another human-made toy. Lips pursed, Castiel knows what comes next, and Anael, true to character, launches into an excited lecture about how human children use the toy to develop hand-eye coordination. She also describes some of the songs and games that combine with the item.

If there’s one thing Castiel has noticed, as he takes a moment to look around the room while Anael demonstrates the motions required to get the ball in the cup, is how many human-made toys are educational, or are based on weapons. Littered among Anael’s shelves are miniature weapons. Small swords made of wood, bows that can only fire toy arrows a short distance, and a slingshot that is possibly the most dangerous item on the shelf. He remembers getting pegged in the forehead with a stone while Anael demonstrated that one.

But many of the toys teach hand-eye coordination. The small, colorful sacks filled with sand or beans that can be tossed around, the horseshoes that are meant to be aimed at a peg, and the strange swirling disk thing that uses a wound string, that can be bounced up and down if you get the momentum just right.

He’s brought out of his musings as Anael hands him the toy, stick-first. “Try it!”

Holding the stick, Castiel calculates the trajectory of the ball, and the force required to get it to land in the cup in less than a second. He misses on his first try. Anael giggles and claps her hands. “You see? It requires a bit of practice to get used to the string and the weight of the ball. Not to mention, that since they’re hand-carved, each cup has its own unique challenge.”

This becomes evident when on his second try, the ball lands in the cup, only to bounce out again. Frustrated, Castiel places the toy on the desk and frowns at his sister. “I don’t have time for frivolous playthings right now, Anna.” He hopes the use of her shortened name conveys his irritation.

“Spoilsport.” Anael sighs and leans back in her seat. “I really did want you to come in to discuss how your promotion to Captain has been going. As a ranking officer, it behooves me to check in on your situation.” Her face growing serious, she leans forward, hands on her desk. “Seriously, are they listening to you? Any insubordination?”

Castiel thinks about this for a moment. It’s not _direct_ insubordination, no. Not something he could actually report. More like… a general lack of enthusiasm for his orders and interaction with the warriors assigned to his direct oversight. He shakes his head. “They’re just getting accustomed to having me as their Captain. I’m sure after some time we’ll find a way to work together well.”

Anael squints at him, but lets it go. “I have an idea what the meeting with the Archangels will be about.”

This is interesting. “Oh?”

“Yes, remember that little recon mission I had you run?”

He nods. They had picked up a demon who had been spreading rumors, and had it questioned. He never learned what information had been retrieved from it.

She steeples her fingers. “If it’s to be believed, it seems that there is a division of Hell considering a coup.”

Oh. This is big news. If the intel is correct, then the angels can stage an attack during the time of unrest. “Are they planning to overthrow the prince?” he asks.

“As far as I can tell, they’re going the route of assassination and fighting over the empty throne.

Castiel absorbs the information. This could turn into all-out civil war. With the in-fighting in Hell, Heaven may finally have a chance at defeating the demons once and for all.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to be on the watch for suspicious demon activity. If we know when the overthrow is to occur, then it could be advantageous.” She gives him a sly grin. “And besides, since it was your team that got the intel, you should have first crack at the recognition.”

“Anna, you don’t have to—”

“Castiel, we both know you need all the wins in your corner you can get. If you ever want to regain everyone’s—”

“Enough.” Castiel clenches his jaw. He doesn’t need a reminder of the mistakes he’s made. While the few who haven’t turned from him always say that there’s nothing wrong with his compassion for humanity, the rest of the angels think there’s something wrong with him. Every single time he’s been reprimanded or punished, it was for helping humans. Once, an Ophanim, one in charge of punishment, called him broken.

“I’ll inform the soldiers to keep watch. Now if that is all?”

He hates to leave Anael like this, but the reminder of his failures stings. Standing, he waits for her dismissal. She comes around her desk, and clasps his hands.

“I’m sorry, Castiel.” She looks up at him, eyes full of affection.

“It’s not your fault,” he replies.

“And it’s not yours, either,” she whispers, giving his hands a squeeze before letting go. “Dismissed,” she says with her usual authoritative tone reserved for work. “And don’t forget to report anything suspicious.”

Castiel salutes. “Of course, Colonel.” With a nod, he steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him. After letting out a heavy sigh, he goes to inform the Garrison of their orders.

* * *

Later, while he’s rearranging patrol schedules, he gets a visit from a brown-winged angel in casual attire, Balthazar.

“I heard you might be needing angels for some recon?”

Castiel knew that as soon as Balthazar heard about this new mission, he would want to take part. “I’m not sending you. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“I swear, I didn’t realize the tavern wench had a beau!”

“And the brawl that ensued?”

“Completely unavoidable.”

“There is a reason that in spite of your seniority, I hold rank over you,” Castiel growls, turning back to his patrol schedules.

With his dark blond curls and congenial demeanor, Balthazar has an uncanny ability to charm… himself right under a woman’s skirts. He’s been close to being labeled Fallen and kicked out of Heaven for his repeated hedonistic transgressions against angelic law. One of these days Balthazar will sire a nephilim, and that will spell the end for Castiel’s friend.

“Come on, Cassie! I’ve been stuck up here doing menial labor since forever. I can’t properly stretch my wings, shut up here.” His speckled wings ruffle as if in explanation.

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a great sigh. “Let me look at the schedule. I’ll pair you with a _responsible_ angel for a couple of patrols.”

“That’s the spirit! I owe you one, my good friend.” Balthazar claps Castiel on the shoulder.

“Many more than that,” Castiel grumbles under his breath as Balthazar swaggers out the door. If he had a chit for every favor Balthazar owed him, he could paper the wall next to his desk.

As Castiel picks up his pen, a young angel with sleek black and white wings raps gently on the doorframe.

“Yes, Samandriel?” Castiel refuses to set the implement down, an indication this interaction better be brief.

The young angel steps just inside, tucking his wings in deference. “You said to inform you if there was suspicious demon activity?”

A little impatient, Castiel snaps out, “And?” with a bit more force than intended.

Samandriel visibly shrinks back. “Th- there appears to be demonic activity in a forest, with Hellhounds, sir. It seems they’re chasing something.”

That’s definitely more interesting than patrol schedules at the moment. Feeling a little guilty for snapping at the young angel, he says, “Good job. Let’s form a search team.”

* * *

After gathering four other angels with sharp senses, Castiel flies with his team to Earth, near where the disturbance was noted. They stay invisible and high enough to remain undetected, as they observe several warrior demons scour the wooded area, a couple of Hellhounds scrounging through the undergrowth. One of the angels points out a long black coat that the handler of one of the hounds is carrying. It obviously doesn’t belong to that demon, so it must belong to whoever they’re hunting.

“Let’s split up in five directions, radial pattern, see if we can find who they’re looking for. Remain on guard, and we’ll meet back here. Signal if you find anything of import.”

The others salute and depart. Castiel heads in an east-southeast direction. He’s soon past the edge of the forest, and dips a little lower for a better view. He passes fields, pastures, and orchards. It’s springtime, and just past when most fruit trees have finished blossoming, and everything is a fresh green.

A warm eastern wind helps keep him aloft even though it slows him down, and he stretches his wings to take advantage of the draft. The land lowers in elevation beneath him, and he circles back, having not found anything. Coming back from further south, he notices a small lake. Flowers are already blooming along the edge, and—

Wait. He can sense… something.

Dipping lower, he opens his mouth and breathes deep. There it is, the tang of fresh blood. And something tainted, possibly demonic. There, at the water’s edge along a field, an old dilapidated fence. More signs of blood, and someone slipping under the lake’s surface. After he makes himself material, Castiel swoops down to where he saw the body go under. Splashing in water up to his thighs, Castiel holds his wings up as he reaches down to lift up the body partially obscured by tangled, slippery weeds.

Propping the upper half of the body against a fencepost, he takes in the pale, lax face, the wound at the temple, dark bruising along the jaw. There’s another cut just below the collarbone that’s sluggishly seeping, and a rip in the shirt indicates another wound on the abdomen. It’s only after he’s assessed the damage that he notices the twisted black crown, damp green tendrils caught in the spines, red gems drawing the eye to the small skull that indicates exactly who Castiel has saved from a watery grave.

He’s staring down at the Prince of Hell. The monster that, within the past decade, has caused a new uprising in demonic activity. There are even rumors that he has personally had a hand in laying waste to entire villages himself. Has the plot to overthrow Hell already begun?

Castiel notices that the prince is not breathing. Without even thinking about what he’s doing, he sends a surge of Grace to push on his lungs, causing him to cough up water, and spasm as if shocked. Yes, of course the Prince of Hell, the leader of demons would react badly to a burst of Grace to the chest. But at least he’s breathing again, albeit weak and ragged.

He should just let the prince slip back into the lake, let him die. But Castiel has a secret, something he hasn’t told anyone. He has befriended the prince’s brother. Samuel, younger than his brother Dean by four years, has been studying at seminary as a healer.

Castiel met the young man after a rather frustrated prayer as an entire town was dying of a deadly disease. He’d helped prevent Samuel’s loss of faith that day, and they had struck up a conversation while Castiel showed him how to care for the sick, help prevent more deaths. Not through miraculous healing, but with cleanliness, herbs, and poultices.

After that time, Samuel would often pray directly to Castiel, mostly holding a one-sided conversation. This is how he learned of Samuel’s brother, and the fate that Dean had taken on to spare him. Dean apparently has made time to secretly visit his brother as well.

Looking down at Dean’s face, he can see the familial resemblance. There are none of the outward signs of vice or evil; his face looks kind and beautiful with his high cheekbones, full, pouty lips, and slightly upturned nose. His bone structure is softened by affluence and youth, but he notices the strong jaw, can feel the muscular build under his hands.

Alarm spikes through Castiel as he realizes Dean’s heart rate has slowed dangerously. If Castiel doesn’t do something soon, Dean will die. But what can he do? He knows, that even born human, Dean has been affected by his years raised in Hell, and the demon blood he has consumed in order to survive there.

Blood. It’s worth a try. Castiel pulls his blade and cuts his left wrist. He presses the wound to Dean’s mouth, but with the man unconscious, it just spills past his lips. Desperate, Castiel tries placing his bleeding wrist to Dean’s lacerated temple. He holds his hand back to avoid touching the crown that has somehow managed to stay seated upon Dean’s head. It radiates a presence of evil. As Castiel’s blood drips down the side of Dean’s face, he can see the bruising fade, and the flesh begin to make itself whole.

Dean’s breathing becomes more even, but his heart rate is still dangerously weak. Castiel once again presses his wrist to Dean’s mouth, and he sees his throat bob with a weak swallow. Dean spasms and chokes, and Castiel is afraid he’s inadvertently killed the man. But Dean’s heart rate stabilizes and grows stronger, the bruise at his jaw fading and the cut below his collarbone knitting back together.

Simultaneous waves of relief and dread flow through Castiel. What is he doing? He is feeding the _Prince of Hell_ his own Holy blood! If there was ever a reason to demote him from his position as Captain, and possibly even label him as Fallen, this may just be at the top of the list. He looks up and realizes his wings have spread out and mantled protectively around Dean. Regardless of what he knows he should do, his instincts are telling him something else. He wants to protect this man. And he’s going to do it, in spite of every angelic rule that says he should do otherwise.

Perhaps Castiel _is_ broken. If so, he never deserved the rank of Captain in the first place. In the meantime, he’s going to protect the person who Samuel still believes in, despite all the horrific stories Castiel has been told.

Color begins to return to Dean’s cheeks, and Castiel takes in more of his surroundings. He notices the sigil hastily drawn on the fence post. If Castiel hadn’t noticed the blood in the water, Dean may well have drowned.

Just as Castiel is preparing to drag Dean all the way out of the water, he simultaneously gets a status request from one of his soldiers, and senses an approaching demon. Now is the time he must make his decision. He looks into Dean’s soul, and sees how much has been corrupted by being raised in Hell. In spite of the demon smut, there is still a spark deep down, glowing with righteousness, loyalty, and kindness. Dean is not past saving.

Decision made, Castiel ignores the angel, and drags a finger through the blood that has dripped down his forearm from his wrist. He draws a temporary shielding sigil on Dean, and he flies them away from the lake, trying to find somewhere safe. There was a small hut further east that seemed unoccupied. Perhaps they can recuperate there long enough to figure out what to do next.


	2. Chapter 2

 

> _Dean walks down a hallway, the soft glow from a lantern lighting the room at the end. A tall, dark-robed figure is hunched over a cradle, his baby brother sleeping undisturbed inside. Alarm spikes through him, as he realizes this is neither of his parents. He watches in horror as the thing stretches out a knobby finger with a long, yellowed claw of a fingernail, and drags it across its pale wrist. Dark blood wells from the cut and drips into the crib, anointing the baby’s forehead._
> 
> _Opening his mouth to call out, he finds only a rasp can escape his throat. Slowly, the figure turns, glowing yellow eyes pin him to the spot._
> 
> _“You cannot save your brother,” a raspy voice says, “Humanity has already taken root in you.”_
> 
> _The creature reaches down to scoop up the baby, and what he had thought was a robe or cape stretches out into tattered membranous wings, and the yellow-eyed creature disappears into the night, Dean screaming after it._

Consciousness filters in slowly, as if he is rising from a fog. Heat pulses through his veins, strange in the dichotomy of searing pain and peace it seems to cause in him. It’s like nothing he’s experienced in Hell. He notices the scratchiness of whatever he’s covered with, some sort of heavy, coarse fabric. The light glowing through his eyelids shifts, alternating between light and dark.

He manages to crack open one crusty eye, and his vision is blurry. There is the shifting of massive, dark… wings? Golden light filtering between feathers. Forcing open his other eye, he makes out a bare, muscular back, and a head of short, dark hair.

Absently, he remembers what happened, the attack and escape. Focus on his body reveals no notable damage, even though he feels too lethargic to move. Where is he? How long has he been unconscious? Is the heat searing through him the result of a poison? An infection? Turning his head makes him dizzy, and he parts his lips to ask a question; _What? Who?_ But all his dry throat manages is a croak.

Dizziness pulls him back under, vision darkening as the figure turns to face him.

* * *

 

Castiel ruffles his feathers, trying to dry them in the patch of sunlight the window allows. He dare not expose his wings outside right now, when anybody, or any _thing_ could be looking for either him or Dean. Arms crossed against his bare chest, he flexes his wings, exposing a different set of feathers to the rectangle of light.

He looks down at the armor he’s discarded in the corner, with mud and pondscum clinging to its surfaces. It will all need cleaning. Unwilling to use more power than necessary, it will have to be done by hand. His shirt is draped across the back of a chair, mostly dry.

Shifting and a noise tell Castiel the man on the bed has stirred. Dean has awakened, but by the time Castiel turns around, the Prince of Hell falls unconscious once again, eyes rolling back in his head.

Castiel approaches the bed, takes in the flush of Dean’s skin, in what looks like a fever. He was afraid of this, the reaction of the demon smut fighting Holy Grace. Taking a cloth, he dampens it from a pitcher and places it on Dean’s forehead. After smoothing it down, he strokes fingers through Dean’s short brown hair, noting how surprisingly soft it is.

This is quite the conundrum. He should be plunging his angel blade through the prince’s heart. Instead, here Castiel is, caring for him, hiding not only from demons, but also his own kind. If he had never met Samuel, Castiel might have just let Dean slip back into the lake.

Checking on the sigil that masks Dean’s presence, he sees the blood has dried and is beginning to flake. It will have to be renewed, in order to remain effective. Perhaps Castiel should consider something more permanent. He folds back the rough blanket covering Dean to expose more of his chest. His blood-sigil is painted just below his clavicles, on the breastbone. If Dean wishes to remain in hiding, something will need to be placed… There, to the left, over the heart.

After making sure his own concealment sigils are still in place, Castiel places his hand on Dean’s upper left pectoral, and pictures what he needs in his mind. His palm glows, and when he removes it, there lies a permanent black marking. It is a five-pointed star, with interlocked lines, surrounded by a circle of flame. Its purpose is twofold: It should hide him from the demons, as well as mute his demonic powers. Angels won’t even think to look for him.

Speaking of angels, Castiel should think of something more permanent for himself as well. He stands and chooses a place over his left hip to place a ward that is a few lines of Enochian, meant to hide his presence from other angels. He stares at the black marks on his skin, thinking about how he is a complete and utter fool. But then again…

Castiel turns to look at the sleeping man. When he awakes, they need to talk. If the demons are in fact staging some sort of coup, then all of Hell will be temporarily unstable. Perhaps he can convince Dean to help the angels, if what Samuel has said about him is true.

Samuel had spent so much time telling Castiel about how Dean had confronted the demon that had come to take Samuel, still a baby, to Hell. At four years old, he had looked directly at the yellow-eyed demon, and said to take him instead. Dean apparently has avoided telling his younger brother much of what life was like in Hell, and Castiel can barely imagine.  

With a sigh, Castiel turns away from where he had been absently staring at Dean’s face and bare chest. There are things he should be doing, such as checking the wards he’d placed on the hut, and cleaning his armor.

* * *

 

 

> _In the dim light of a torture chamber, a dirty female is strapped to a rack. Her face is contorted with pain and sorrow, and she pleads silently, her tongue having been previously removed. Tears streak through the grime on her face._
> 
> _A hand swings into his vision, holding a wickedly sharp blade. “Take it,” the nasal voice of his instructor says. He does, and holds the blade in the relatively small hand of his ten-year-old self._
> 
> _“Show me what you’ve learned,” his instructor says, gesturing toward the woman on the rack._
> 
> _“Yes, Alastair.”_
> 
> _Dean steps forward on shaky legs and stares at the subject. He knows his lessons, and the punishment for failure. After taking a moment to calm his nerves, he swallows, raises the knife, and whispers, “I’m sorry.” While he applies his blade, it steadies, and is wielded by the strong, sure hand of an adult. He no longer needs to have the subjects on his rack silenced, and listens to the screams of the tortured. Alastair no longer needs to supervise him, and stops by to observe his work frequently._
> 
> _“Dean. You show such promise. Carved you into a new animal.”_

He wakes with a start, a dry cloth slipping from his forehead into his eyes. Shaking it off, he notes soft candlelight reflecting from the thatch overhead. A coarse, itchy blanket covers his naked body, and it makes him squirm. Obviously not in his chambers, Dean remembers what happened, and wonders where he is now. Something in the room shifts, and he freezes. Dean has no idea if he is in the presence of friend or foe. A shadow obscures the light from a single candle as someone approaches.

Holding his breath and tensing every muscle, he prepares to strike as the stranger comes closer. He can make out short, dark brown hair, and a masculine frame wearing a simple homespun shirt over dark trousers. The man reaches out before pausing, and Dean meets his eyes. In this light, he can’t make out the color, but they’re heavily hooded, the face below angular with a strong chin, straight nose, and wide, full lips. Handsome, Dean thinks, while preparing to spring into action if this person is a threat.

“Please remain calm,” the stranger says with a low, resonant voice, “I mean you no harm, Dean.”

“How do you know my name?” Dean’s voice is raspy, throat dry.

“I am a friend of Samuel. You nearly drowned in the lake when I found you.” The man straightens, and looks around the room. “You should be safe here.”

Dean follows the man’s gaze, taking note of the wards painted on the walls in blood. They look slightly different from the ones he’d learned, but he can recognize the intent. Intermixed are wards to avoid detection from both demons and angels. Wait, why angels? That’s when he realizes that unless he has been out for a couple of days, he shouldn’t have healed so quickly. He tries using demon-sight to figure out who this guy is, but it fails. This is very, very bad.

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Dean asks, “Who are you?”

The stranger’s shoulders drop, and he sighs. He looks away before he says, “My name… is Castiel.”

Shit. Dean’s being held captive by a fucking angel. He takes a closer look at the sigils and wards on the walls. They are probably blocking his ability to do anything, and he’s as defenseless as a regular human. He doesn’t know what’s worse, that his own people have turned against him, or that he’s been captured by a dick with wings.

A bluffing attempt at bravado, Dean raises his chin in defiance. “So what do you want from me?”

The angel frowns at him, and a crease forms between his brows. “What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Dean sits up and lets the itchy blanket pool around his waist. “You obviously need me for something, or you would have let me die, or killed me yourself. Let’s get this over with.”

The angel, Castiel, tilts his head to the side with a quizzical look. “Is it so difficult to believe that I would save you for some other reason? Your brother Samuel is my friend, as I’ve already said. Do you have any idea how often he prays for you?”

Sammy. Shit. He _prays_ for my sorry ass? Dean thinks. That explains why this place looks familiar, it just happens to be the same hut he uses to stop and change clothes in before going to visit. But he can’t let the angel know too much.

“Whatever. So you’re just going to let me walk out of here?”

At that, the angel purses his lips. “It would be inadvisable to do so at this time, but if that is what you truly wish, I will not stop you.”

Dean wants to throw the damn itchy as hell blanket onto the floor and storm off, but he’s naked. While he is far from ashamed of his body, it makes him appear vulnerable to go storming off, ass naked.

He scoffs, “Inadvisable? What, you got an army sitting outside that door?”

Something flicks through the angel’s expression, then he frowns at Dean again. “At the moment, the immediate vicinity is free of both angelic and demonic activity, present company excepted. However,” his jaw twitches, “I could have let the demons who wounded you and were hunting you, _find_ you by the lake. It is my assumption that the considerable sized force is still searching for you. As for angels…”

That shadow passes across his expression again. “They are probably searching for _me_ , and your presence could draw their attention.”

Oho, this is a juicy tidbit. “Looking for you? What was your name again, Cas… Casteel? What’d you do, get your Daddy’s sandals dirty?”

Nostrils flaring, the angel’s eyes flash bright blue. He stands right over Dean, arching over him, forcing him to lean back. “My _name_ is _Castiel_. And what I _did_ , was save you from certain death. Not only _that_ , but I used my own holy blood to do it. If the other angels ever find out that I saved the _Prince of Hell_ from dying? I would be cast out of Heaven, stripped of my Grace, and condemned to a slow and painful death.”

The angel’s jaw twitches again, and he steps away, lips pursed in a tight line as he looks down his nose at Dean.

“You should show me some respect, considering I saved your life.”

Dean would be incredibly turned on by that show of power, if not for something that had been said that’s setting alarms off in the back of his brain. His _own holy blood_. Remembering the feverish heat, Dean thinks about what he’d learned about angel and demon interactions. Angelic Grace is toxic, and angel’s blood…

“You drugged me in order to weaken me, you son of a bitch!”

He tosses the blanket off the bed, and gets up in the angel's face to find their heights almost matched, with Dean maybe an inch or so taller.

“Where. Are. My. Clothes,” Dean growls.

Castiel holds his place for a brief moment, before taking a step back and turning his head, with a nod in the direction of Dean’s clothing. Stomping over to the chair where the angel haphazardly threw his things, Dean deflates a little at the state of it all. Everything is muddy and stained, his breeches and shirt are torn, boots still wet. And his crown. How had he managed to hold onto it this whole time? It’s on the floor, some pondweed stuck in the spines. With a grunt of disgust, he stomps off to where he knows there should be another set of clothes, because this is the place he stops to change when he visits Sam.

While pulling on a pair of trousers, Dean finds something else to be furious about, as he catches sight of a black mark on his chest. He’s been _BRANDED_.

“What the fuck is this?!?” His voice gets high pitched at the end, and he tucks his chin to get a look at the black tattoo on his skin. This is something he’s never seen before, but it can’t be good if the angel put it there, even if it does look awesome as Hell.

The angel— Cas, he’s just going to start thinking of him as Cas— is just standing there, shoulders relaxed, head high. “If you wish, I will remove the protection I have placed upon you. However, as soon as I do, you become trackable.”

Dean sneers, and mutters under his breath, tying closed the front of his trousers, “Damn smug bastard.” While he’s pulling a shirt over his head, Cas speaks.

“I was trying to heal you the only way I knew how.”

He can see Cas’ posture has changed, his head now hanging, a defeated look on his face. Serves him right. There is a pair of plain, low farmer’s boots near the door, and Dean kneels to slip them on. Now, it’s time to see if Cas is telling the truth.

“You’ll just let me walk out of here?”

Cas raises his empty hands. “I shall not hinder you, and nothing I have done can prevent you leaving, if that is your wish.”

Huh. Cracking open the door, Dean peeks outside, to see… Nothing, really. The area around the hut is relatively flat, with just some tall grass and weeds. After stepping outside, Dean finds his night vision is still intact. Even with no moon, he can see the treeline in the distance. Overhead it’s a clear night, and the stars are beautiful. A light breeze swishes through the grass, and a couple bats swoop overhead.

There doesn’t seem to be anything demonic or angelic in the surrounding area, but he’s not sure how much he’s been compromised. Turning back toward the hut, he sees Cas standing in the doorway, framed by the faint golden glow from the candle within. Dean closes his eyes, takes a breath, and opens them, to see an ethereal blue glow emanating from the angel. Okay, that still works, even if it’s faint.

Turning around, Dean closes his eyes again, and reaches out with his senses. He can feel Cas, and pinpoint his location. The only other things in close proximity are small wild animals. It feels weird, the effect of dampened demonic power. It’s probably the most human he’s felt since… since being taken to Hell over twenty years ago.

Now that he has the chance to think about it, Cas _did_ save his life. Even though he still doesn’t completely trust the angel, it’s probably in his best interests to remain in hiding until he can figure out what’s going on. He should try to reach Crowley. That demon wouldn’t dare try to get Dean removed from the throne. He has enjoyed his job and position, and has been Dean’s closest ally. After all, it was Crowley who arranged Dean’s visits to Sam, and came up with the whole mistress ruse. If there’s someone who can tell Dean what’s going on, it’s him.

Dean summons a Hellhound, and sends it off with an encoded message for Crowley, letting him know he’s safe for now, and to contact him when able. With that done, he just needs to wait for a reply, and try to make the best of the situation until then. While he stands there, looking up at the expanse of stars in the sky, Cas looks around warily.

“Unless you plan on traveling in the middle of the night, may I suggest we go back inside now?”

* * *

 

As soon as the door closes behind Dean, the both of them safely inside, the tension between Castiel’s shoulders abates, and he slumps against a wall. He watches as Dean goes over to his pile of mostly ruined clothing, grumbling at the tattered and dirty state of his princely attire.

Dean plucks the golden chains and gems from his once-fine silk shirt, then uses it to try to buff his boots. Castiel had used the shirt to wrap his hands while removing Dean’s crown. If Castiel had thought to discard the evil thing at the lake when they were there, he would have. The small grey skull’s tiny ruby eyes seem to glitter with malevolent sentience.

Turning away from the sight of the evil crown, Castiel sits next to the table, where he has been cleaning his armor. The sabatons took the most damage, with his feet having settled into the muck at the edge of the lake. Now that they’re mostly dry, he works on flaking the mud off from in between the plates of one armored boot. As he slowly uncovers the pale finish and golden trim, Dean finishes salvaging what he can of his own wardrobe.

Castiel keeps an eye on Dean as he picks up one of the lightweight armor pieces, examining it. The material is unique to Heaven, and similar to ceramic, inflexible and shatterproof. He explains this to Dean, who raps his knuckles on an armplate. One sabaton clean, Castiel picks up the other, and glances at where Dean is examining the dragonhide shoulder covers.

The scales of the dragonhide are reminiscent of a honeycomb pattern, and Castiel remembers when he was allowed to take the hide as a trophy, spoils from a particularly grueling battle. Its resilient nature has made it an excellent addition to his armor, and also serves as a reminder to others of his accomplishments.

“These are pretty cool, Cas,” Dean says, running a thumb along the coarse hide.

Eyebrow raised, Castiel responds, “They are flame resistant, yes.”

With a snort, Dean leans back on his hands and looks around the room again. After a moment, he asks, “So, all these wards, how do they work, exactly?”

Castiel lowers the piece of armor he’s been working on and follows Dean’s gaze to where there are two blood-painted sigils side-by-side. Dean obviously recognized the intent earlier, but perhaps the execution is different than he’s used to, and requires confirmation.

“Both of those wards are to avoid detection. The one on the right is for angels, the left for demons.”

Dean nods, then rises to tap a finger at the ring of sigils surrounding one. “I got that part, but what’s this extra stuff?”

Castiel sets his cleaning aside and joins him. “This is a spell to strengthen the cloaking mechanism with extended habitation.”

Eyebrows scrunched and lips in a pout, Dean looks over at Castiel. “So the longer we stay here, the harder it will be to find us?”

“Essentially, yes. It will reach full effect after twenty-four hours of continuous habitation.”

“Huh.” Dean nods and rocks back on his heels.

Castiel wonders if that is all Dean wishes to know, and stands at rest, his hands at his sides while he waits to see if Dean has any more questions. The moment stretches to the point where Castiel is thinking of returning to cleaning armor, when Dean blurts out, “I was supposed to go see Sam. His birthday is soon.”

Ah yes, the annual human celebration of survival. Castiel turns to look at Dean, and notes the sag of his shoulders, the droop of his head. “I don’t recommend doing so while being hunted. If they track you to Samuel—”

“What the hell am I supposed to do then?” Dean snaps, waving his arms around to indicate the small space of the hut. “Just hide out here the whole time?”

Castiel ponders this. If Samuel is expecting Dean, then he may come looking for his brother when he doesn’t show. Turning to go back to cleaning his armor, Castiel says, “I will get a message to Samuel.”

He hears Dean huff behind him. “Why don’t you just flap on over there and bring him here?”

It’s Castiel’s turn to sigh, and he lowers himself in his chair, glaring at Dean. “Need I remind you, _again_ , that we are _both_ in hiding?”

He grabs a piece of armor and a rag, rubbing at a black lacquered section. “If I fly anywhere, I will attract the attention of angels. Do you really want me to lead them here, with you inside?”

Dean frowns at that, and Castiel continues. “Not to mention, they will wonder about your brother. What do you think would happen if their attention was on Samuel?”

At the mention of his brother, Dean’s lip curls into a sneer, and he hunches into a menacing pose over Castiel. “Don’t you _ever_ threaten Sammy!”

Keeping his expression calm, Castiel pushes him back. “I am not threatening him. As I’ve said before, he is my friend. However, _you_ must also think of how the current situation may affect your brother.”

Castiel watches Dean deflate slightly, even though his shoulders remain rigid with possibly anger or fear. He wonders how this brash man is supposed to be the feared leader of demon hordes. Perhaps his exploits have been exaggerated in order to generate a certain image. The Dean before him does not seem bloodthirsty or heartless. Still, Castiel should remain wary. One does not become and remain the Prince of Hell because he is kind.

After a moment of watching Dean stew in his periphery while he cleans his armor, Castiel thinks he might have a suitable plan. He sets down his armor and faces Dean.

“I shall send Samuel a message, requesting his presence here. It shall contain careful wording, so that he knows to use caution in his travels.”

Dean’s head perks up with a look of grateful surprise. He begins rooting for something to write with, and Castiel holds up a hand.

“In the morning.”

Dean grumbles, and flops down on the bed. They sit in silence for a while, before Dean speaks up again.

“We got anything to eat?”


	3. Chapter 3

Further east, a couple of hours travel on foot, there is a monastery on a hill. Built from grey stone and roofed with red tile, it houses holy men and those who wish to learn the Word of God. In the library, there is an alcove with a window. Under this window there is a desk, where a tall young man in brown robes sits hunched over a text as he transcribes a book of healing herbs.

Sam dips his quill into the inkwell, and uses his free hand to brush the shaggy brown hair from his eyes. Once he finishes writing down the properties of an herb that can be used as an anti-inflammatory, he sets down his quill and leans back, feeling several satisfactory pops along his spine.

Standing up, he goes to find another book about the herbs he’s studying. He’s fairly sure there is another one with slightly conflicting information about the particular herb he is studying. Book located, he heads back to his desk in the alcove. After his duties are finished, he is to head into town to meet his brother at the inn just on the outskirts of the village south of the monastery.

When he reaches his desk, he finds a pigeon perched on his freshly transcribed page, a note strapped to its leg. As soon as the note is unstrapped, the bird flies off. Opening the note, he immediately recognizes the angular handwriting of the angel Castiel. Concerned, he quickly scans the words.

The message uses coded language, but what he can tell is something happened to Dean. Something happened, and Castiel the angel helped. Sam had been worried what might happen if the angel met his brother who just happened to be the Prince of Hell. Whatever happened, Castiel is requesting Sam show up before Dean comes looking for him, which is a bad idea for some reason. Regardless of why, if Dean’s in trouble, Sam must go help.

The last line of the note lets him know it’s not too serious, because Dean requested he bring food. Yes, that’s his brother. Castiel has also requested Sam take care in traveling to make sure he isn’t followed or watched, using the code phrase, “Don’t forget the Dinglehoppers.” Luckily, he knows exactly where he’s going, since he helped prepare the hut for Dean’s visits with a change of clothes. After all, Dean would get noticed in his royal garb.

Also, the hut serves as an important waystation for his visits, since the denizens of Hell think Dean goes to visit a lover instead of his brother. Sam wouldn’t trade the less frequent than he’d like visits for anything, and Dean had insisted on a way to keep Sam safe from the attention of demons.

Deciding the rest of the transcription can wait, Sam tucks the note into his robe, and heads to the cellar to gather some supplies. After some less than truthful conversations with a couple of the brothers, he makes his way out of the abbey and down the path that leads to town, then west to his brother.

* * *

 

Castiel is standing, looking out the window while Dean grumbles and pokes at a fire in the hearth. After Dean had eventually laid back down to try to sleep, Castiel had finished cleaning his armor, then sat quietly in thought until sunrise. Angels neither sleep nor eat. He was surprised that Dean requested food last night, but he is still a man, even though he has demonic powers. As soon as the sun was past the horizon, Castiel called a messenger pigeon, in order to send a note to Samuel, requesting his presence at the hut. Dean had insisted on using some specific wording, to let his brother know he was actually okay.

After the note was sent, there would be several hours wait, and Castiel didn’t know what to do with the time other than sit and wait quietly. He is used to the background presence of the Heavenly Host, and being cut off in order to hide himself has left him feeling a little lost.

There’s a crackle and pop from the fire, and a soft curse from Dean. Curious to see how the man has managed to get in trouble with nothing but a metal poker and a fire, Castiel turns to see him stomping on a couple of coals that have made their way out of the hearth. Reaching for the ladle in the nearest bucket, Castiel pours some water over Dean’s boot, putting out the potential fire hazard. Minor crisis averted, Castiel ignores the face Dean makes and turns back to the window, and continues to stand silently, lost in thought.

* * *

The sun is more than halfway to its zenith when Castiel notices someone approaching. They are neither demon nor angel, and soon he recognizes Samuel Winchester’s kind soul. Knowing better than to tell Dean immediately, he waits until Sam is close enough for shouting distance, then informs Dean of his brother’s arrival. As predicted, Dean tries to dash out the door recklessly. Castiel holds the door shut with one hand while Dean tugs on the handle.

“Must I remind you why stepping outside is a bad idea?”

Dean gives him an unamused look before sticking his head out of the door and calling, “Sam! Sammy!”

At the sight of his brother, Sam picks up his pace, and when he is a mere yard from the door, Dean can no longer hold back and flings himself outside, giving his brother a hearty hug. Sam, a couple inches taller than his brother, pulls back to check Dean over, hands on his face, shoulders, arms, until he’s pushed off.

It warms Castiel’s heart to see their reunion, and once again he wonders how this man ended up as the Prince of Hell. Seeing how Sam turned out, he doubts that young man could have been the one they originally wanted either. The whole thing is strange, and it leaves a niggling feeling that tickles the back of his mind. He brushes it aside to focus on the fact that they really should be inside right now.

Castiel ushers both brothers past the threshold, closing the door behind them. Dean helps his brother with the pack on his back, and as soon as Sam is freed from it, he turns to Castiel. They look at each other a moment, before Sam wraps Castiel up in a tight, back-smacking hug. Surprised at the gesture and unused to physical displays of affection, Castiel slowly raises his hands to lightly pat at Sam’s back.

Sam pulls away with a grin, and grasps Castiel’s shoulders. “Thanks so much,” He takes a huge breath, and looks at Dean. “You didn’t have to save my brother, but you did.” Sam turns back to Castiel with a soulful look. “I have a feeling, that if you hadn’t known me or our situation, you wouldn’t have.”

Castiel keeps his stoic stance and expression, even though Sam verbalized some of his own thoughts. With another pat on the shoulder, Sam releases Castiel and steps back, taking in the sight of his brother who is now digging through his pack.

“So, who wants to tell me what happened?”

Dean pulls a potato from the bag, a triumphant look on his face. “I talk, you cook.”

While Sam prepares a simple meal from potatoes and wild spring greens, Dean tells him about the attack and his escape from Hell. Castiel listens attentively, and stops Dean at mention of a prophecy. Sam had mentioned it before, but he didn’t know much except that it was the reason the demon that came for him that night over twenty years ago. Dean casts a brief glance at Sam while he recites a brief and possibly edited version of the demon prophecy about a human raised in Hell who shall lead the demonic hordes to victory against Heaven.

Lost in thought at this bit of worrying information, Castiel loses track of the conversation until Sam clears his throat, and Dean kicks his shin under the table. “Your turn Cas,” Dean says. “I told him up to where I passed out by the lake.”

Castiel launches into his side of events, and watches as Sam finishes cooking, then sets two plates for Dean and himself. Always polite, Sam tries to offer Castiel a portion, but he refuses. Dean complains there’s no meat, and Sam retorts, “I live in a monastery, Dean. It’s not like I can just ask for a couple of fish or a couple mutton chops to take on the road with me.”

Dean shrugs, making a grimace as he stabs at a tender fern fiddlehead. “At least you brought onions.”

Castiel finishes up his explanation of everything that happened until Dean awoke, including the tattooed marks on both his and Dean’s skin. Dean, the ties at his collar undone, shoves his shirt aside to show his brother. “I was pissed as hell at first, but it looks kind of badass, doesn’t it?”

Dean is grumbling about the lack of salt on the potatoes, when Castiel feels a presence outside. It’s definitely a demon, and Castiel stands up, dragging Dean out of his seat, still chewing, to a corner out of sight.

“Don’t move.”

Dean pouts around a mouthful of potato, but holds still. Sam is already over by the hearth, crouched down with his rosary, reciting a prayer to make a pitcher of water holy. Castiel slides his blade up his sleeve, then cracks open the door. He can sense the demonic presence, its shadowy outline about ten yards from the hut.

“I can sense your presence. Uncloak.”

The demon that appears is not what Castiel had been expecting. He’s dressed like a human nobleman, with buckled shoes, stockings, breeches, and coat, all in shades of black or dark grey. He has the appearance of a middle-aged man, with a clean-shaven, square face, and close-cropped hair. The demon holds itself with an air of importance, and anyone who could not tell his true nature, would merely think him a man of high status. He takes a step forward, but Castiel holds out a hand, and commands, “Halt. State your name and intent.”

Flicking some lint from his shoulder, the demon makes it look as if he intended to stop, not because of a command. He places his feet shoulder width apart, and stands with his hands clasped in front.

“My name is Crowley, and I’ve received word that my charge is in distress. I would like to make sure that he is still alive and well.”

Castiel glowers at the smug-looking demon, and closes the door. He turns to see Dean halfway across the room, with Sam trying to block his path.

“We don’t know if it’s really him, or if he’s on our side,” Sam argues, hand still holding the rosary stretched toward his brother’s chest. “Let Castiel figure out if it’s safe, before you go putting yourself in danger.”

Dean backs up a step, and crosses his arms with a frown. “Fine.”

The demon’s voice calls out, much closer than before. “I just want to make sure my young squirrel is unharmed.”

Castiel gives the door a suspicious look, then back at Dean who rolls his eyes and nods. He doesn’t like this. If this Crowley knows how to find Dean, then it’s possible other demons might find him as well. Still not pleased with the situation, he opens the door to find Crowley a couple feet from the door.

“May I suggest letting me in before I attract other, uninvited guests?”

With a frown, Castiel remains in the doorway, physically blocking it. The demon is a few inches shorter than him, and Castiel looks down his nose at him. “You’re uninvited.”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “On the contrary, I was sent a message last night, that requested my response.” With a cocky smirk, he looks over Castiel’s shoulder. “My message might have gotten intercepted, so I decided to stop by as soon as I could spirit away unnoticed.”

Castiel looks over his shoulder to see Dean standing closer than before. When Dean nods, Castiel lets out an exasperated sigh, and steps to the side. For a brief moment, he wishes he had chosen a different direction yesterday. But then he feels guilty, because it would have most likely meant Dean’s death, and Sam would never know what happened to his brother.

The demon steps over the threshold, but goes no further. Impressed, he looks at the small rug under his feet. “Devil’s trap?”

It’s Castiel's turn to raise a smug eyebrow, and he chants a short spell in Enochian, one meant to compel the subject to tell the truth.

“Now, state your name and purpose here.”

Arms crossed and eyes rolling upward in exasperation, the demon states, “My name is Crowley, and my purpose is to ascertain Dean’s wellbeing and safety.”

Sam stands next to Castiel, the pitcher of now blessed water in his hand. “Are you an ally or do you wish Dean harm?”

“I am an ally, of course. Been watching over this one since he was a wee tot. With Dean on the throne, my life is comfortable and I want for nothing.” Crowley curls his lip with distaste. “Abaddon will eventually replace me with one of her own cronies who she knows is loyal to her.”

Dean cuts in, “So you know that it’s the throne she’s after?”

“Please,” Crowley raises an eyebrow. “You don’t get to my position and not have some clue what’s going on.”

Dean asks if he knew about the coup, and Crowley raises a hand, silencing him. “I knew she had sent out feelers and was stirring dissent. I did _not_ know she’d gotten so far with her plot, let alone already had her own among the guards.” He half-bows in Dean’s direction. “For that I am eternally regretful, your Highness.”

“He’s good, Cas. Let him go,” Dean orders.

Castiel is still mistrustful of the demon, but if they can get any intelligence or insight on the machinations going on in Hell, this Crowley could be valuable. Feeling yet another sin weigh on his shoulders, he toes forward to break the circle of the demon trap.

Once freed, Crowley takes in everything with a shrewd eye. He notes the wards on the walls, the heap of angel armor in one corner, laments the state of Dean’s clothing, and inspects the demonic crown sitting on a shelf. He also gives Dean a thorough looking over, but says nothing. Castiel and Sam remain tense, but Dean steers Crowley over to a chair, and they sit as Dean asks him how he’s managed to not be captured, displaced, or killed.

“I’ve made it so Hell can’t run without me. If they did away with me so soon, the whole realm will be thrown into utter chaos within less than a week. They wouldn’t dare.”

He goes on to tell how Abaddon and her minions are spreading the tale that Dean was attacked by angels, and spirited away. She is busy rallying troops and devising an attack. “Of course, when I discovered that the attack had happened on the Hell side of the portal, I knew better, but Hell’s denizens are bloodthirsty, and it doesn’t take much to stir them into a battle frenzy.”

Castiel asks for what he knows of the demon’s current battle plans, but Crowley balks. “You may have rescued the Prince here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to just give an angel access to strategic intel.”

Crowley narrows his eyes, and gives Dean another curious look. “Speaking of angelic interference, what has the bloody angel done to you?”

Dean clears his throat before mumbling that Castiel used his blood to heal him.

“Excuse me? He did _WHAT_?”

Castiel squares his shoulders and faces the demon. “He needed healing and was losing blood. I could not use pure Grace to heal him, so I used my blood to _save his life_.”

Hands in tight fists on the table, Crowley’s face grows red, expression one of part horror and part controlled fury as he mutters under his breath. Castiel can just make out expletives and curses, and how he’s undone years of planning and work. That uneasy tickle at the back of his mind resurges; and he wonders how, other than removing some of the demonic taint from Dean, his blood has somehow undone any of Dean’s training or life in Hell for over twenty years.

“Maybe,” Dean says, “If I go back, I can restore order and expose Abaddon as a traitor.”

“My boy, in your currently weakened state, you’d only stir their furor even more, and until I’m able to locate all of Abaddon’s sympathizers, you’d be under constant threat of assassination.” Crowley throws Castiel a look full of contempt. “Until you’ve ascended as the King of Hell, there’s no way you can defeat Abaddon.”

Having put up with enough disdain from angels, Castiel is not about to let a _demon_ treat him like lowly trash. He attacks Crowley’s motives and questions the ability of a demon to be loyal to anything, which just sets Crowley off on an assault on the uselessness of angels in general. Even though he’s currently in hiding himself, Castiel can’t bear to hear someone malign the Heavenly Host.

He’s one insult away from running the red-faced demon through, intel be damned, when Sam pushes them away and tells them both to drop it, threatening to splash Crowley with holy water, and using one of Castiel’s own banishing sigils against him. Molars grinding, Castiel feels Sam lead him by the elbow over to the window. Glancing at Dean, he sees the man sitting back with a smirk, apparently having found the argument entertaining.

Sam continues as intermediary, and they come to the decision that Dean should stay with Castiel at the hut for now. Crowley promises to bring some weapons for protection and hunting, while Sam says he can bring some more clothes and food, and maybe some books for research. Crowley promises to check in with status reports as he’s able.

By the time everyone manages to agree on a plan, the sun is low in the sky. Sam still has a long walk back to the abbey, and Dean is concerned about him traveling after dark. They’re considering having Sam wait until morning, but Crowley offers to deliver Sam to the town south of the monastery. Castiel is concerned about having the young man around the demon more than is necessary, but Dean agrees readily.

Sam promises to return the next morning, and the brothers say their goodbyes. Dean also shows some concern for the demon as well; which while Castiel understands that Crowley is something of a father figure to Dean, the concept of caring for a demon is foreign to him. The sun is nearly set when they depart, leaving Dean and Castiel alone again in the small hut.

At first, it felt crowded with four bodies, but now that it’s just him and Dean, Castiel finds the hut full of empty space. Dean fills that space with a foul attitude, as he wonders if it was such a good idea involving his brother in all of this. It’s just another bad decision that Castiel silently adds to his growing pile, but he tells Dean that it’s Sam’s decision to make.

Dean spends the rest of the evening with a scowl, and he stomps around, giving Castiel orders. In an effort to be accommodating, Castiel goes to gather wood, and then gets fresh buckets of water. Dean finishes the last of the now-cold potatoes and vegetables, once again grumbling about the lack of salt. The irony of someone being raised in Hell complaining about _not_ having salt doesn’t escape his notice.

When Castiel asks Dean if he wishes to perform evening ablutions, Dean stares blankly for a moment, before realizing Castiel is holding a wash rag and a bucket of water. “You could have just asked if I wanted to wash up.”

In keeping with the theme for the evening, Dean complains about how cold the water is, the lack of soap, and the inability to take a proper bath. He strips off his shirt and scowls during the process of dragging the washcloth across his skin. Castiel avoids directly staring, but glances now and again to study the play of muscles under skin while he washes. Dean finishes with a splash to the face and running wet fingers through his hair, then pulls his shirt back on and tosses the rag into the bucket.

“Your turn,” he says, crawling onto the bed and wrapping himself in the scratchy blanket, facing the wall.

While angels rarely require bathing, there is a ritual to their cleanliness. Castiel himself is accustomed to bathing under a waterfall, although temperature is normally not a deciding factor. While not ashamed of his body, he usually bathes alone. He takes his time rinsing out Dean’s washcloth, spreading it out to dry along the windowsill, and then steps outside to fetch a fresh bucketful of water.

After he senses Dean’s steady breathing and assumes he’s asleep, Castiel undoes his shirt ties and slips the garment over his head. With minimal splashing, Castiel performs his ablutions as best he can under the circumstances, taking Dean’s lead and leaving his trousers on.

Before he pulls his shirt back on, Castiel takes a moment to stroke the feather he has tied to the waistband of his trousers with a length of red ribbon. It was a gift from his sister Anael, meant as a protection charm. There are two glass beads, one green and one blue, slipped over the quill. The feather is white, one of the secondary coverts that create a stripe in between the black flight feathers and mottled pink wing feathers.

It takes all of Castiel’s willpower to avoid sending Anael a small prayer. He knows she will come looking for him, and that’s the last thing he wants. She shouldn’t be involved in this, putting her rank and status at risk. With a sigh, he pulls his shirt over his head and sits in his chair. Castiel notices as he blows out the candle, that Dean has rolled over in his sleep, his face buried in the blanket.

Castiel watches over Dean through the night.

* * *

 

Dean wakes face-down, drooling on the thin pillow. He cracks open one eye to see Cas, sitting in a chair by the table, just… _staring_ at him. It sends a shiver through him, which he tries to turn into a stretch.

“Dammit, Cas. Don’t you have anything else better to do?”

“At the moment, no.” Cas just blinks at him, his face a mask.

“Well don’t watch me sleep, it’s creepy.”

“My apologies. I will take care to look away during your somnolence.”

Dean rubs his hands over his face in an attempt to scrub away the lingering lethargy. He takes a moment to remember watching Cas wash up last night, having rolled over to try to get comfortable on the worn-out old mattress. The candlelight and shadow over the lines of his golden skin and warrior’s physique was beautiful. When he realized he was staring, Dean tucked his warming face into the covers before Cas could turn around and catch him.

He knows his own body is a bit soft and pale from sitting on the throne and living in a realm with no sunlight. Although Dean does get regular exercise with training and other princely duties, he maybe takes a bit too much advantage of his human need to eat. Sneaking a hand down to his stomach, Dean feels the slight give there, and mentally compares it to the firm planes he remembers from Cas.

Maybe he should try to trim down during all this. The gurgle of his stomach under his hand betrays his thoughts, and Dean frowns as he gets up and grabs a dry, brown roll from the supplies Sam brought yesterday. “So what did you do all night, other than stare?”

Cas’ mouth twitches before he speaks. “Considering I am unable to communicate with the Heavenly Host, I spent most of the evening contemplating my many mistakes and errors that have led me to this point.” Dean avoids looking at him while he grabs some water.

“I also spent some time pondering what my punishment will be when my actions are eventually discovered.”

Dean chokes on his water. “Punishment?”

Cas nods. “Yes. I think I’ve narrowed it down to either languishing in Heaven’s prison, or having my wings cut off in front of the Host.”

… Damn. Dean blinks at that, the half-eaten roll in his hand forgotten. “I’m so—”

He’s cut off by Cas, “And before sunrise, the demon Crowley stopped by briefly and left this at the door.”

Cas pulls a large bundle out from under the table and sets out a sword, an assortment of knives, and a bow, complete with a quiver of arrows. Dean grins at the sight, glad that Crowley included a nice assortment of knives for different tasks. He examines a hunting knife before tucking it into his belt. The lack of meat on the table is about to be remedied.

There’s a small pond nearby, formed at the bend of the small creek that passes close to the hut from which they’ve been getting their water. All he needs to do is whittle a fishing pole, and he might be able to catch something for lunch. When he tells Cas about his fishing excursion, the angel frowns.

“Come on, Cas. I can’t drown in knee-high water. And besides, it’s been over 24 hours, so the rules for the house wards should be fine, right?”

He watches as Cas ponders this. “Hey, and the pond, it’s not that far away, you’d hear me call if I got in trouble, right?”

Cas blinks, then nods. Finally, Dean can get outside of this stuffy one-room hut, and enjoy some long overdue sunshine.

Dean grabs another roll and a water skin, then takes his time following the creek to the pond. Once he’s got his fishing pole set up, Dean wedges it between a couple of rocks and reclines at the water’s edge, sun shining on his face, eyes closed. He spends the rest of the morning out there, and comes back with a couple of smallish fish, his face pink from exposure.

While he’s cleaning the fish, Dean thinks about how he never really gets to do stuff like this with his normal Hell duties. A small part of him hopes it takes a while to resolve the whole thing with Abaddon. He could get used to this.

Dean makes it back to the door of the hut with muddy boots, and he’s up to his elbows in fish slime, scales sticking to his forearms. After making Cas take the fish at the door, Dean stomps back to the stream to wash up.

Once he’s back inside, boots left at the door, Dean tries to remember how to actually cook fish. There’s still no salt, so he chops up some wild onions to stuff inside. After deciding to just shove them in a skillet over the coals in the hearth, Dean learns it’s actually pretty easy to burn fish. He eats it anyway, refusing to complain because he can just say it’s supposed to look and smell that way, ignoring the way the angel wrinkles his nose at the odor.

By the time Dean finishes what he can of his burnt lunch and has dumped the rest, Sam arrives with another pack full of supplies. This time, it’s mostly books and… some small, potted plants, as well as a few household things like some more cookware, another blanket for the bed, and extra clothing. Once Sam has laid everything out, he bites his lip and clasps his hands.

“So… I was thinking. Since we don’t know how long this whole Hell thing’s going to take, I figured maybe I could help out around here?” He picks up a heavy tome. “I found a couple books about Hell and demons that might help.” Taking a look around the hut, he says, “And since Dean never really learned to cook, maybe I could show the both of you?”

Cas nods appreciatively, and Dean pouts. “I can cook just fine. Made fish for lunch, as a matter of fact.”

Sam turns to Cas, “He burned it too, didn’t he?”

Damn little brother’s too smart for his own good. The traitorous angel nods and Sam turns back to Dean. “Look, I understand you never really got a chance to learn how to cook, and we normally don’t get that much time together.” His shoulders droop a little, and Sam stares at the floor. “And it’s the beginning of May… so…”

Shit, it’s Sam’s birthday, what, tomorrow? Dean had intended on finding something from the village to give him, seeing as anything from Hell probably wouldn’t be appreciated, considering the kid lives in a damn church. So Dean agrees to let Sam stay, and helps him arrange the potted plants along the windowsill while Sam talks about their medicinal properties, as well as how they can be used to season cooking. There is a large patch of wild mint growing behind the hut, and Sam talks about making teas, and what dishes it works in.

Once they’ve got Sam settled in, they look over the gold and gems Dean salvaged from his clothes, as well as his rings and bracelets. Dean says maybe they can sell them, get some money to buy whatever they might need. Cas looks at the items with a frown, and says they’ll need to soak everything in holy water first.

“Purifying salt would also be ideal, but I gather that’s difficult to come by,” says Cas who gives Dean a significant look, letting him know he clearly remembers Dean’s gripes about lack of salt in his food the past couple of days.

Dean’s used to having plenty, but he knows it’s a valuable commodity for regular people. “Yeah, it’s fine. So we good?”

Everyone nods, and they make plans for Sam to take Cas to the town northwest of the hut. It’s closer, and fewer people are likely to recognize Sam. When Sam prepares supper later, Dean pays attention to how he handles the food, the seasoning, and the way he cooks it. He’ll never take a meal for granted again.

Settling down for the night comes with a new challenge, seeing as they only have one bed. Cas doesn’t sleep, but both Dean and Sam are tall, and the bed isn’t the most accommodating. Neither brother will let the other sleep on the floor, and they find a way to sleep head to toe on the narrow bed.

* * *

Sam and Cas leave early enough in the morning the next day, so Dean drowses sprawled out on the bed after they go. It’s not like he has anything to do anyway, trapped in the hut until they return.

The next time Dean wakes, his eyes feel gritty, and he’s kind of sweaty and gross. Rolling out of bed, he peeks out the window. Judging by the shadows, it’s almost midday. Or just past, he’s not sure which. Half-remembered sharp-edged dreams tinged in red dissolve from his mind as he eats cold potatoes and brown bread. Oh, what he wouldn’t do for something to drink with at least a little alcohol in it. Anything other than plain water.

The next couple of hours until Sam and Cas return are spent lazing around the hut. Dean’s nosiness has him poking through Cas’ armor again, but soon his fascination for the lightweight material fades, and he studies the wards Cas has all over. Dean traces the lines and symbols with his fingers, ingraining them into memory.

For a while, Dean considers masturbating, but he’s just not up to the level of effort that would require. He pokes at the coals in the hearth, chews on a stick and rinses his mouth out, cleans his fingernails with the tip of a knife. When Sam and Cas get close enough for Dean to sense, he sits up, dusts off the table, and grabs one of the books Sam brought at random, opening it up somewhere in the middle. Of course, he ended up grabbing one about herbs.

He purposefully waits until Sam opens the door, then looks up from the book as if he’d been studying it thoroughly. “Oh hey guys, back already?” He flips the book closed and tosses it with the others. “I was just doing some research and lost track of time.”

Cas and Sam glance at each other before placing down their purchases. Sam got some sausages and a smoked ham for Dean’s meat-loving cravings. There’s also a nice-sized chunk of cheese, as well as some leafy greens and root vegetables. Cas sets a large iron cooking pot by the hearth, and pulls out a small crock.

“Ooh, is that butter?”

Sam takes the crock and finds a cool place to store it. “Yes, and we also got eggs.”

He pulls out a basket stuffed with moss, and sets it next to the butter crock. Dean can only assume the eggs are tucked inside. Rooting through the rest of their purchases, Dean finds a small stack of honeycakes. There’s a small twinge of guilt that Sam had to buy his own birthday treat. But maybe… Dean drags Cas out the door, and points to where the ground slopes in a gentle hill a short distance away.

“You see that spot over there? I think some wild strawberries grew there last year. I, uh…” He glances at Cas, “I feel bad that I couldn’t get Sammy something for his birthday myself, so d’you think I could go look and see if there’s anything to pick?”

Cas studies him for a moment. “Yes. I can accompany you if you wish.”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Dean says, “Nah, I need you to keep him occupied.”

With that settled, Dean heads off toward the slope. The afternoon sun is bright, and there’s a slight breeze. Once he gets to where the strawberries should be, Dean finds a decent sized patch, and quite a few berries are ripe. Using the hem of his shirt, he picks as many as he can carry comfortably. When he comes back, Sam turns on him with a frown, only to have it dissolve into a grin at the sight of the small, ripe fruits Dean is carrying. That right there, that smile’s worth any amount of effort. They find a bowl for the strawberries, and Dean frowns at the splotchy red stains left behind on his shirt.

The last couple things that Sam pulls out of his pack are two pouches. One is small and leather, and jingles with coin. The other is made from a scrap of Dean’s ruined silk shirt, and contains more of his jewelery than he expected. Apparently they got a good deal on a couple of rings and some of the gold chain, so they decided to trade the gold and gems slowly.

While Dean tucks that away, Cas pulls out a pack of cards. Dean’s more than a little surprised. “Whoa, Cas, I didn’t think angels were into card games?”

Cas looks down at the cards. “My sister collects human toys and games, and she taught me a couple of simple games that can be played.” Thumbing the edge of the card deck, he looks up at  Dean. “I thought you might need some form of entertainment, and I’ve been told adults also enjoy card games.”

Sam starts cooking while Cas shows Dean the two games he knows, Concentration and GoFish. Dean picks up on how easily Cas can read the cards, and starts teaching him one of the gambling games he knows. Sam keeps throwing him disapproving looks, but Cas doesn’t seem to mind, so it can’t be that bad, right? Besides, you never know when a card-counting angel with an inscrutable expression will come in handy.

They’re playing SlapJack when supper is ready, and during the entire meal Sam lectures about how gambling is wrong, and Dean’s trying to corrupt an angel. Cas tries to defend himself, but Sam counters with how Cas has proven he doesn’t quite grasp all the intricacies of humanity. Cas is taken aback by Sam’s words, and it just encourages Dean’s desire to drag the angel down a peg or two.

* * *

The next few days pass in endless monotony. Dean can only go as far as Cas can easily get to him, and soon he’s explored every reachable bit of landscape close to the hut. It doesn’t take long to grow irritated at Sam’s hopeful attitude and Cas’ stoic demeanor. Sam and the angel get along great, and it spurs Dean’s irritability as the days progress. Not to mention listening to Sam’s snores at night.

His temper grows shorter with each passing day, and he wants… something. It’s a nebulous craving, and it’s distracting as Dean tries to figure out what it is. Most of the time he assumes it’s just the fact that he’s trapped in the tiny hut, and can’t go much further than shouting distance from it without the distracting angel with him.

In an attempt to relieve some of Dean’s stress, Cas takes him for walks. Still never very far from the hut, but far enough he’s not staring at the same damn rocks and grass and patches of weeds. There’s a forest not too far away, and Dean enjoys the limited hunting for the small game it affords.

And then there’s Cas. One of the few things that preoccupies Dean’s time is trying to get under the angel’s skin. Sam’s a whiny bitch about it whenever Dean goads Cas in his presence, so he uses these excursions to learn about angels, and try to get under that impassive shell. He finds irritation gets the most satisfying reactions. He’d gone for shame and derision at first, but any time he made the angel’s shoulders droop and that head of perpetually messy hair bow with sadness, Dean felt like a heel.

* * *

It’s been raining on and off all day, so they’re cooped up in the hut. Dean has been listening to Sam drone on about demons for the past hour. None of the books have anything about the prophecy, or Abaddon, so he doesn’t know why Sam is bothering. After listening to his brother lecture about yet another unimportant demon, he snaps.

“Just shut the fuck up already!” Dean swipes the book off the table onto the floor, a scowl on his face.

Cas stoops over to pick up the book, and looks at Dean with creased brow and disapproving frown. “Samuel is just doing what he can to help, Dean. Your actions are unwarranted.”

With a grunt, Dean paces the room, feeling the irritation buzz under his skin. “These books are useless, Cas. We’re not any closer to a solution than we were when Sam first got here.”

He wipes his hands over his face, and scratches at his elbow. “I need some air.” Slipping on his boots, Dean stomps out the door. Cas reminds him to stay close, and Dean flips him a rude gesture, jaws clamped tight.

The ground is slightly muddy as he makes his way to the creek. Dean stares at the rushing water for a moment, then on impulse strips down to his underwear, hanging his clothes on a nearby tree branch. Stepping into the cold water, Dean scrubs at his skin, trying to wash away his ire. Fingernails scratch at the scruff on his chin, and he dunks his head into the water, holding his breath.

Half an hour later, he comes back to the hut with his clothes sticking to his skin, hair wet, and still unsettled. Sam and Cas are suspiciously quiet, like they stopped talking about him just before he came in. They obviously were, because the angel is staring a hole through him, while Sam looks anywhere but. Probably been discussing how he’s a _problem_. Well, they can go fuck themselves.

The rest of the day is tense, and Sam starts cooking before the sun reaches the horizon. Dean would normally help, but tonight he sulks on the bed, a sloppy game of solitaire doing not much to distract him from the noises Sam makes. Cas has decided to keep him company, and Dean stares at the back of his head. If only he could relieve whatever is making him feel like he wants to scrape the skin off his arms. As if the angel can sense his gaze —he probably can— Cas turns and makes eye contact, and they stare at each other.

A little jolt courses through Dean and settles in his groin. Flashes of holding the angel down and pounding into him flash through Dean’s mind, and he digs his fingers into the meat of his thighs at his reaction, shifts his position. When was the last time he got laid? It’s definitely been a while.

Cas’ eyes widen, and Dean swears he can see the angel blush before disengaging eye contact and turning back to watch Sam cook. That’s when Dean realizes he’d nearly been practically groping himself, and has the beginnings of an erection. Heh, gave the angel a bit of a show. He’d go outside to take care of his growing problem, except he’d have to explain why to his _little brother_. Ugh. Instead, he rearranges himself, and stares down at the cards like he could set them on fire if he tried hard enough.

The meal is awkward, and Sam seems to notice that neither Cas or Dean will look at each other as he keeps glancing at both of them. When he’s almost done, Sam clears his throat to get his brother’s attention.

“So, I’ve been thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime,” Dean quips.

Sam throws him a bitchface, and continues. “Anyway, I should probably head back to the monastery for a little while. I’ve been gone longer than usual, and they might be a little worried.”

Dean stares down at the last of the sausage on his plate, appetite gone. Great, he’s chasing Sam off now. With a grunt, he pushes away from the table and lies down on the bed facing the wall, scattering the remnants of his abandoned game of Solitaire.

Sam says, “Dean, it’s not—”

“I swear, if you say it’s not my fault, I’m gonna get up and punch you,” Dean growls, wrapping his arms around himself. The silence behind him confirms his suspicions.

Unable to sleep, Dean remains in the same position, listening to the table get cleared, the dishes washed, and lots of uncomfortable silence as Sam and Cas sit at the table. Eventually, Sam gets up and starts packing his things to leave in the morning. When it’s time for bed, Dean hears Sam clear his throat, so he almost flattens himself against the wall, giving his brother as much space as possible to avoid touching. The mattress dips dangerously, and it’s all Dean can do to keep from rolling over with the movement. As soon as Sam’s settled, Dean listens to his brother’s breaths eventually slow, even out, and deepen. When a light snore emanates from behind him, Dean finally starts to relax.

He’s going to miss Sam, as uncomfortable as living with him in this hut has been. Cramped muscles cause him to squirm a bit, but he’s determined to not wake his brother. Sleep is a long time coming, and Dean listens to the sounds of the night, thinking about his current unrest.

* * *

The next morning, both brothers are groggy and quiet. Castiel insists on trying his hand at cooking, and only slightly undercooks breakfast. Dean doesn’t complain, and shoves food in his mouth without tasting it. Castiel mentions which supplies are getting low, and Sam suggests the angel take a short trip to the town market, that he should be okay to pick up essentials without him. Dean wants to say he should go with. But the tension inside makes him avoid saying anything, afraid of what else might come out of his mouth, and make things worse.

The meal ends too soon, and Castiel offers to wash the dishes. Dean stares down at his hands, trying to muster the effort to hug his brother goodbye. Sam stands next to him and clears his throat.

“I um,” Sam starts, “There’s a backlog of transcribing I have to finish up.”

Dean can see Sam’s feet shuffle as he continues. “They usually don’t let me get much time off, so if something comes up, have Castiel send a message, yeah?”

Sam places a hand on Dean’s shoulder, and that’s it. Face turned away, he gives Sam a crushing hug. Hands clutching at the fabric of the cassock Sam hadn’t worn once this whole week, Dean tries to keep his damn emotions in check. He wonders when he turned into a woman. Letting go, Dean pats Sam’s shoulders with both hands and stares at his chin.

“You take care, okay?” His voice sounds rough, but he keeps it together.

“I will Dean. And you too. I mean it, _anything_ happens, let me know.”

Nodding, Dean lets go of his brother and turns away, a lump in his throat. He can hear Sam shuffling awkwardly, before asking Cas to walk with him to the edge of the property. There’s a silence, where he suspects Sam’s trying to silently convey the need to leave Dean alone. After a pause, Cas agrees, and says he’ll be back shortly.

As soon as he hears the footsteps move them away from the hut, Dean collapses into a chair and places his hands over his face. Scrubbing at the dampness of his eyes with his fingertips, Dean takes a shaky breath and tries to get his shit together. He ignores the fact that depending on what happens in Hell, that may be the last time he ever sees Sam, at least for a very long time. By the time Cas comes back in, he’s swallowed it all back. The Prince of Hell isn’t allowed to show weakness. He remembers his lessons.

Sam’s departure transforms Dean’s irritation into a morose brooding. Cas seems at a loss to know what to do with him, and after returning from a supply run at the same town as before, he either avoids Dean or tries to placate him with card games as the day progresses. The next day, Dean wakes up to a basket of freshly picked fruits and wild vegetables. Dean and Cas cook breakfast together, Dean adept with the chopping knife, and monitoring Cas with the pan to make sure he keeps it on long enough to actually finish cooking their meal.

Afterward, Dean whittles on a piece of wood, and Cas wanders about the hut tinkering with the wards, carving some symbols deeper into the walls, and checking everything over. He’s working on something on the door when his blade slips, slicing the skin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. He’s been using his blade, so the cut bleeds and doesn’t heal immediately.

Dean looks up at the hissed breath, and sees Cas grasp his bleeding hand. As if pulled by a string, Dean comes straight up to him and bends forward, examining the wound. “Stupid angel. Gotta pay attention to what you’re doing.”

It’s not a deep gash, but Cas will need to keep his thumb pressed in until it stops bleeding. As if it’s something he does all the time, Dean finds himself lapping at the smears of blood around the wound. It’s unexplainable, but his mouth waters at the taste of Cas’ metallic tang on his tongue. When he finally realizes what he’s doing, Dean backs up and goes searching for a rag, mumbling something about cleaning the cut.

Castiel’s eyes are wide, and he says angels don’t get infections. While Dean wraps up Cas’ hand instructing him to keep the thumb pressed down until the wound’s closed, it’s all he can do to not just latch onto the cut and _suck_. The taste is in his throat, filling up his senses, and he can smell it.

It doesn’t seem to smell or taste any different from regular blood, maybe a little less salty. But it makes him light up, body warm like he’s just had a bottle of really good liquor. He licks his lips, chasing the remnants. That’s when he remembers that angel blood weakens demonic powers. That manages to dampen his desire for Cas’ blood.

* * *

Oddly enough, Dean notices his mood has improved over the next couple of days, and he’s reminded of the feeling of that burning in his veins when he first woke up after the lake. The warmth that spread through him after tending to Cas’ hand was different, but the effect seems to have calmed whatever’s been eating at him.

Dean finds himself looking at Cas with a new tension, one with an altogether different kind of heat. He chalks it up to the way they’ve been cooped up for a while. Besides, he hasn’t really gotten off in some time, and Cas _is_ very aesthetically pleasing.

They move around each other these next few days, getting used to the daily rhythm of cohabitation. Dean spends as much time as he can get away with outdoors, letting the sun darken and freckle his skin. The little bit of softness at his belly is fading, muscles becoming more defined. He doesn’t think he’ll ever have thick pectorals like he sees on Cas when he takes off his shirt, golden skin practically glowing in the sunlight, the muscles over his shoulder blades making a shape similar to wings when he flexes them back.

Dean has found himself needing to take a couple of private walks, with promises from Cas to leave him alone unless there is obviously some kind of trouble. On the other side of the stream, just past the pond, there’s a couple of trees and a clump of bushes. He makes his way there and takes himself in hand, stroking out the tension that results in a stubbornly stiff cock.

He’s never been ashamed of taking care of his desires before, but then again, he rarely has to take care of it himself. With the angel constantly near though, it feels… shameful to have to do this. However, it doesn’t keep him from imagining Cas in some very unangelic situations as part of the images that help get him off. He bites his hand when he comes, making sure he doesn’t accidentally cry out and draw the angel’s attention to what’s going on. Although part of Dean wonders what Cas’ reaction would be if he caught Dean whacking off to thoughts of coming all over his cheekbones and dark lashes, stripes of come smeared across those wide lips.

* * *

Dean can feel the beginnings of that itch under his skin creeping back, and he does what he can to keep it at bay. With his brother gone, Dean feels a little ashamed that it’s easier to manage, but then he’s also busier without another person to share the work. That, and his new private pastime helps keep him relaxed.

It’s time for another supply run, and Dean’s determined to go with Cas this time. He has about two week’s beard growth, Sam left an old, floppy farmer’s hat behind, and with the tattoo, he’s safely hidden from the notice of demons. After peeking into the still waters of the pond one day while fishing, he barely recognizes himself.

Hair lightened by the sun, skin darkened and freckled, and the scruffy start of a beard with a gingery cast, he looks like a different man. Add to that the simple peasant's clothes he’s grown accustomed to wearing, Dean doubts even Crowley would recognize him in a crowd. Heart rate increasing under Cas’ appraising gaze, Dean holds still while he awaits the angel’s verdict.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Cas says, mouth pinched in a thin line.

“C’mon, you’ll be with me the whole time. I _really_ need to see something other than these four walls and couple of acres I’ve been stuck in for the past couple weeks. Besides, I’m dying for some actual conversation with someone who doesn’t have a stick up their ass.”

Cas straightens, frown firmly in place. “I don’t have a—”

“Figure of speech, Cas. So. You gonna leave me locked up here or what?”


	4. Chapter 4

The village to the northwest is only an hour’s walk away. As they make their way to the outskirts, Dean breathes in the scent of people. There’s the odor of farm animals, human sweat caused by hard work, smoke from fires, the aroma of various cooked goods. He hears children playing, and the cacophony of multiple voices all holding separate conversations at once.

Dean normally doesn’t spend much time around actual people, even during his trips to see Sam. The town near the monastery is full of religious types, and he has no reason to be fond of monks or priests, his brother being the exception. That’s why he’d usually hang out at the inn at the edge of town, where the regular people could get away from the condescending looks of those who felt they were better, and thus more holy, than others.

But this town, as they make their way deeper in, Dean can see a cross section of society. There are travelers at the inn, servants, farmers, and tradesmen selling or purchasing goods, and even some lower nobility passing through on horseback and in carriages. He even witnesses the local constabulary break up a scuffle in the center of town.

Cas stops in a tiny little shop crammed full of the most random stuff. Wagon wheels, trunks, jewel encrusted goblets, jewelry, swords, candlesticks, books, and even some clothing. A short man with curly brown hair shot through with streaks of grey and a grizzled beard, comes out from behind a beaded curtain and steps up behind the counter. His watery grey eyes stare hungrily at Cas as they walk up to him. Dean doesn’t trust this guy.

“Greetings! What can I interest you gentlemen in today?”

Cas pulls out the pouch with the jewelry, and Dean notes the little half grin the weasel behind the counter gets. But he keeps back, curious to see how the angel will deal with him.

“Good day, Marv. We’ve come to trade some more of this.” He produces one of Dean’s bracelets, a smooth gold snake chain.

While Marv looks at the chain through spectacles perched on his nose, Dean pretends to be interested in a small music box. Dean may not spend much time on Earth, but he knows what that chain should be worth, and the amount Marv quotes is less than a quarter of that. He notes Cas’ displeased moue, and when Cas tries to argue, Marv talks over him, like he’s much too busy, and it’s either take it or leave it. Before Cas can give in, Dean steps up and slips the chain from Marv’s grasp.

“That’s OK, I know someone who can take Grandpa’s gold, as well as his entire estate holdings. And they’ll give us a fair price, too.” With his parting words, Dean steers a baffled Cas away from the counter, leaving Marv blinking. But he doesn’t rush, and as predicted, Marv gives in before they’ve reached the door.

“Wait, let me…” Marv calls out anxiously. Dean stands facing the door a moment longer, giving Cas a surreptitious wink.

“Just a sec now, I want to be fair. Maybe I can offer, um…”

Dean finally turns around, a put-upon look on his face. The price Dean quotes is about three fourths what the chain should be worth, but much higher than the gold if it were to be melted down. Marv’ eyes go wide, and he accepts the challenge.

They haggle down to just a little over half of Dean’s estimated value, and before they leave, they get a good amount on one of the black rings as well. The metal is something that most humans don’t even know about, and even for demons it’s notoriously difficult to work with. Marv is entranced enough with the ring and its design that he gives a decent amount of gold coin for it.

As they make their way toward the market, Cas keeps looking over at Dean. “I have seen Sam haggle with that shopkeeper, but that was… I have no words.”

Dean grins and puffs out his chest. “Sometimes you gotta push ‘em a little, Cas. That slimeball was gonna rip you off, and since it’s _my_ gold, I figured the guy deserved a taste of his own medicine.”

“Dean, you didn’t—”

“I didn’t rip him off, Cas. But he’s gonna find that black ring can’t be melted down like the gold. And it’s more of a novelty item than anything, nobody here will recognize its true worth.”

Cas hums and gives him a sideways glance as they reach the first stalls of the market. While they do their shopping, several of the people recognize Cas. They all look happy to see him, and they’re welcoming to Dean as well. It’s strange, how so many seem to gravitate toward the stoic angel. The ancient woman manning a bread stall hands Cas a small fruitcake, thanking him for the recipe of something to help her rheumatism.

With their shopping completed, it’s time to head back. But Dean convinces Cas to stop at a tavern for a drink and something to eat before the walk back. As they step into the darkened interior, Dean remembers just how long it’s been since he’s had more than water to drink. He hopes the beer is decent.

The dark wood and well-worn benches tell Dean this is a place where a man can relax. The other patrons, of which there are quite a few in spite of the early hour, tell him the food must be good, too. He finds them an empty spot at the end of a bench near the back. As he and Cas settle into their spots across from each other, shoving their purchases under their seats, Dean waves over the waitress and orders them whatever’s on special, and two mugs.

Dean sits sideways, leaning heavily against the table. He looks over to see Cas sitting straight, hands in his lap. “C’mon, man. Loosen up!”

Cas frowns at him, then tries to mirror his posture. It almost makes him look more awkward, and Dean just chuckles, looking around the room. There’s a card game going on in the corner he might want in on after they eat.

The waitress, a petite thing with wavy brown hair and a round face, brings their order, two earthenware mugs full of ale, and trenchers full of chunky stew. There’s also a board with a round loaf of brown bread, and a hunk of cheese. Dean rubs his hands together at the sight, and says, “Thanks, sweetheart.” He almost doesn’t notice that she winks at _Cas_ , and says, “My pleasure.” Almost.

Dean’s already digging into the stew, a chunk of bread in hand, when he looks up to find Cas staring at the foamy head of his beer. After giving a questioning grunt, he watches Cas look up with a raised eyebrow. Dean swallows his mouthful, sighs and grabs Cas’ mug and sucks the foam off.

“Sucked the poison off the top for you.”

Cas blinks, his eyes wide. “What? Why would they be trying to poison us? Is this a threat? Will you be alright, Dean? You should have said something!”

That makes Dean try to hold in a laugh, because Cas takes everything so seriously. “No, no. It’s just, it’s a joke, Cas.”

“I see nothing humorous about attempted murder,” Cas mumbles, lifting the mug and sniffing it. With a frown, he asks, “This is meant to be consumed?”

“Just drink your damn beer, Cas.”

After a tenuous sip, Cas grimaces and pushes the mug away, suggesting the drink has gone bad. “Perhaps it’s been poisoned after all,” he says in a low tone.

Dean just shakes his head and keeps eating. The waitress makes her way past the table again, and asks how they’re doing. Cas expresses his concern over their beer being spoiled, and the waitress, gives him a coy giggle, placing a hand on his shoulder. Oh, so that’s how it is. For some reason Dean doesn’t like it, but he keeps the thought to himself.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Dean tries laying on the charm, giving one of his winning smiles.

She gives him an appraising look. “Name’s Margaret.” Then she turns to look at Cas with a flirty half smile. “But _you_ can call me Meg.”

For no particular reason, her focus on Cas just seems to irritate Dean even more. He never reacts like this when the wenches hit on Sam. Lips pressed tight, Dean says, “Apparently my friend here doesn’t like beer. Got anything a little more refined?” He can’t help the edge in his voice, but Meg doesn’t seem to notice.

“We’ve got some wine, but I think this fella might like something special.” She mentions they have mead, produced locally by a beekeeper. When Cas finds out it’s made with honey, his interest perks.

“I’ll bring you some right out,” Meg says, and her fingers trail along Cas’ shoulders as she departs.

“What a nice woman, Dean,” Cas says.

Dean’s teeth are grinding together, and it takes an effort to unclench them. He stuffs another stew soaked chunk of bread in his mouth and says, “Eat your food, Cas.”

“But I don’t require food, Dean”

Dean makes a fist, and presses it to his forehead, eyes closed and mouth pursed. He takes a breath. “We’re in public. Eat it anyway.”

Cas eats like he’s analyzing every bite. Meg brings his mead, which he enjoys much better, and he starts talking about bees and how important they are. By the time Dean’s mopped up the last of the stew, he’s given up on the card game and just wants to get out of here. But just as he suggests they leave, there’s a disturbance outside that carries into the tavern, the atmosphere turning tense.

One of the tavern’s patrons rushes out, and hushed murmurs fill the building. Now as good a time as any, Dean leaves some coins on the table, and they collect their parcels. Not far from the entrance to the tavern, they see a small girl, crying, her dress torn and dirty. The man who had rushed out earlier is holding her tight, petting her hair. Cas stops, his brow creased, mouth curving down. Dean would rather just leave, and he elbows the angel in the ribs.

“What’s the holdup? Just leave the people to their problems, she probably just scraped her knee.”

Cas turns to Dean with a disapproving glare, blue eyes starting to get their preternatural glow. “Can’t you _feel_ it Dean?” He looks across the crowd. “There is something more happening here than just an injured child.”

Dean makes the effort to actually look at the townspeople, and the air surrounding them has shifted. Mothers are clutching their children, and most of the people in the crowd are wearing concerned looks. He turns to a burly, dark-skinned man wearing a blacksmith’s leather apron.

“What’s going on?”

The man explains that children have recently started to go missing in the surrounding area. It’s always when they’ve gone to play in the more wooded areas, and they disappear without a trace. The blacksmith also says that the girl has two brothers, and if she’s alone, then the boys may be the latest victims.

When Dean turns back to Cas, the angel has vanished. He looks for that disheveled mop of dark hair, to find him following the man with the girl wrapped tightly in his arms, heading away from the crowd. With a sigh, Dean tags along behind. They make their way to the constable’s office and go inside, and Cas follows as if he belongs. Dean finds a comfortable place to rest outside, and waits for the angel to emerge.

* * *

Half an hour later, Cas comes out, face clouded with concern. Oh, man. Dean doesn’t want to get involved, and Cas goes and sticks his nose right in the middle of it. He comes up to Cas and waves his hand to get the angel’s attention. “So what’s up?”

The crease between Cas’ brows deepens, his frown becoming more pronounced, before he says, “Something evil is hunting the town’s children, Dean.” He gives Dean a soulful look. “We should help them.”

“Um, in case you’ve forgotten, we’re both on the run here. Trying to avoid getting noticed?” Dean waves his hands, indicating the town. “This? This is a bad idea, Cas. _This_ is what gets us _noticed_.”

* * *

 

Castiel understands the reasoning behind what Dean is saying, but he can’t just forsake the town. “I understand, but I cannot simply leave these people to their fate and forget about them!”

He watches as Dean’s face undergoes a rapid transition of expression. It ends with Dean biting his lip while shaking a finger at Castiel, then throwing his hands up with a growl of frustration.

“I’m gonna regret this,” Dean finally says, shoulders slumping in defeat.

They both go into the constabulary, and Castiel expresses their desire to help. He ignores Dean’s dissatisfied grumble from behind. Some of the townspeople are forming a search party, and they will be heading out soon. In the meantime, Castiel tries to talk to some of the parents of other recently missing children. Unfortunately, his questions aren’t always well received, and Dean must help him more than once when a grieving parent takes umbrage. Dean tells him to stop acting creepy, but Castiel doesn’t understand what he’s doing that’s ‘creepy,’ and says so. Dean just sighs, shakes his head, and follows alongside him.

By the time they make it back to the constabulary, the picture looks grim. Most of the children were taken in the direction of the north woods, a large and dense forest. The little girl hadn’t been able to say much, only that her brothers had been taken, and she had ran. He is sure some creature has taken the children, and he only hopes that whatever it is hasn’t harmed the two boys.

While they await the arrival of others, they store their purchases in a safe corner. Dean complains about their lack of weapons, and Castiel pulls his angel blade. Dean tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and says, “You got one for me too?”

“Why would I have a blade for you, Dean? You brought your hunting knife along.”

Castiel hears Dean grumble something about bringing pig-stickers to fight monsters in the woods. Before he can reply, the constable calls for order, and organizes everyone into groups. When he gets a look at the weapons they’re carrying, he hands Dean a machete, which he gladly accepts, and offers Castiel a cudgel. Castiel would like to tell the lawman that whatever they are looking for will more than likely find a blunt weapon as an irritant more than anything, but Dean shakes his head, lips pressed tight. Thus, Castiel holds his tongue.

* * *

They are grouped with a deputy, two villagers, and the father of one of the earlier missing children, and depart. When they reach the forest’s edge, Dean pulls Castiel behind the others, and asks, “Hey, is it gonna be a problem if we use some of our mojo here? We’ll probably actually find what we’re looking for if we do.”

Castiel ponders this a moment. He’s fairly sure he can use a small amount of Grace and go undetected. Dean, he’ll have to be careful, and Castiel says so. “Especially if it’s a demon that’s doing this.”

Dean says, “I dunno, it doesn’t fit a demon’s M.O. to randomly take kids.”

Castiel blinks at him, raising an eyebrow. Because after all, Dean was taken as a child.

“I was a special case, Cas. Besides, they made me their prince! I doubt they’d be grabbing kids near the woods to try to replace me.” He has a point.

They head into the woods, and as they go deeper, someone finds a piece of shedded snake skin. It’s about as long as Castiel’s forearm, and clearly from a monstrously large creature. They separate from the group again, and theorize what kind of monster it could be.

The basilisk suggestion is quickly discarded because the smell alone would give it away. There are various types of dragons, but most don’t live in wooded areas. Castiel suggests a Dracanae, which looks like a woman except with green skin and two snake bodies instead of legs. Dean says maybe. They’ve rejoined the group when Dean stops, grabbing Castiel’s arm.

“Wasn’t there something similar to the snake women, except with just one tail instead of two?”

Castiel nods. “Lamia. They have been known to feed on children, too.”

Dean frowns, jaw tight, and catches back up to the others, which have moved on ahead of them. As Castiel watches, he can see the tight line in Dean’s shoulders. He knows that Dean doesn’t want to do this, but Castiel cannot just walk away, knowing that these people need help.

In an effort to find the children quicker, Castiel expands his senses as far as he dares, feeling the forest around him. But all he feels is nature, and the search party. Being cut off from the ability to hear general prayer is a hindrance, but he cannot risk being noticed by his brethren. Also, he almost wishes it was a demon that had taken the children, it would be easier to find than a monster.

They’re deeper into the woods when it starts to get dark. Dean wants to go back to town, but the rest of the hunting party wishes to stay, so they find a spot to make camp. While they help with firewood, Castiel asks Dean if he’s been able to sense anything that could help.

“Nah. I got nothin’. You?”

“Unfortunately, I’m too cut off from angelic wavelengths to do much good, until we’re close enough for me to sense the children.” Castiel sighs and looks down at the armful of sticks he’s carrying. He hates feeling useless.

In frustration, Dean chucks a stick deep into the darkening forest. “What are we doing here, Cas? These people, in the middle of the forest at night, when they _know_ something’s out there? Why not just come back in the morning?”

Castiel sighs, taking a moment to try to find a way to relate the situation to Dean. “What if it was Sam that had been taken?”

“That’s different, he’s my brother. Yeah, that one guy lost his kid, but the others, they’re just townspeople.”

Castiel feels a pang in his chest at what being raised in Hell has done for Dean’s sense of sympathy. “Children are precious, Dean. The entire community feels the loss of every single one, and they want to find the monster responsible.”

He picks up a stick and turns to head back to where they’ve made camp. “I am sure there are some who think like you, but for the parents who have yet to lose children, they must at least want it stopped before it happens to their own.”

As he walks away from Dean, he can feel the man’s eyes watching him. Dean says, “Well why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

* * *

They’ve settled in, and it’s been dark for some time. There’s a crackling fire, and everyone is grouped around it, listening to the sounds of the night. Although there isn’t much to eat but some hard bread, dried meat, and water skins, everyone shares, and there‘s enough to go around. Now, they sit silently, waiting for morning.

Castiel faces away from the fire, looking out into the night. He keeps vigilant, noting the wildlife that passes through. The area is notably lacking in large fauna. He wonders if it’s due to the town close by, or because of the monster having fed on the animals before switching to children. Dean sits next to him and lightly elbows him in the side.

“Hey, you should lay down for a bit.”

“Dean, you know I don’t need to sl—” Dean presses a finger to Castiel’s lips, mouth pinched in a tight line, and eyes wide as they flick to the fire and back to Castiel.

It takes him a moment before he realizes, oh yes. They’re with other people, and Castiel must pretend to be human. And that includes appearing to sleep.

“Thank you, Dean. I shall lie down and nap.”

Castiel promptly leans over away from Dean, and lies on his side, his hands under his head. He closes his eyes and falls still, hoping to approximate sleep. Dean chuckles softly, but doesn’t say anything else. Castiel cannot imagine what it must be like for humans with their short lifespan, and the constant need to refuel and rest.

Some time later, Castiel is caught up in comparing life cycles and energy requirements for various life forms, when Dean nudges his leg. Castiel immediately sits upright, fully alert.

“What is it?” Even while he’s asking, Castiel opens up his senses to the surrounding area. Something large is moving around out there.

They look at each other, and Dean nods towards the fire. Most of the others appear to be sleeping, except for the one man with the missing child. He’s leaning back against a tree stump, eyes glassy and reflecting the light of the fire. Castiel hears a small twig snap in the distance, and both he and Dean’s heads swivel around towards the source. The man notices.

“You guys hear something?” Now he’s getting up and coming over. Castiel wishes the man would remain in place. He’s closer to the fire, and thus safer. He glances at Dean, who is already standing up.

“Nah, probably just a rabbit or something, or maybe even the wind. Why don’t you try to get some sleep?” Dean places his hand on the man’s shoulder, and starts to steer him back to his spot.

Castiel notices whatever is out there is coming straight at them, and the fire. Trying to be quiet, he pulls his blade from his sleeve and focuses on the moving entity. It’s about the size of a man, maybe larger. But it doesn’t move like one. Castiel is fairly sure it’s a lamia.

As the creature draws closer, it startles a nest of small animals, who make noise as they dash off into the night. This attracts the attention of the one villager, who says, “Did you hear that?” loud enough to rouse the others. While Dean tries to get everyone to calm down, Castiel focuses on whatever is approaching.

It stops near the edge of the clearing, just beyond the firelight. Not that it stops Castiel from seeing it. The body of a snake supports the upper body of a woman, her hair long and stringy, hands like claws, with elongated fingers. They look at each other, and she sways from side to side. She knows Castiel can see her, and she’s trying to lure him further from the fire, closer to her tail.

There’s a shout from one of the villagers, and a knife sails past Castiel towards the lamia. There’s a hiss, and she disappears into the forest, and soon Castiel loses track of her with his senses as she gets further away. The terrain becomes more hilly in that direction, so there is the possibility of caves.

When Castiel turns to face the group, everyone is standing and talking over each other, and Dean’s either close to punching someone, or letting them run into the woods after the creature.

“Everyone, _please_ ,” Castiel says in a booming voice.

It causes them all to turn and face him. “I understand your desire to go chasing the creature into the woods, but let me assure you, it is fast and very deadly. It has been injured, and we will be able to track it during daylight. Please, try to get some rest in the meantime.”

One villager rips his arm free from Dean’s grasp, grumbling as he sits near the fire. Others eventually make their way back to sleeping spots. However, if any sleep is acquired by anyone from then until dawn, it it restless and fitful.

As soon as it’s light, everyone gets up and prepares to hunt the creature. They find the thrown blade, and a trail of blood to follow. Deeper into the forest, the terrain becomes sloped and rockier as they make their way into the hills. Well before midday, they find a cave, the blood trail leading inside. Castiel searches, and only finds one lifeforce in the cave, and he hopes it is a child. Seeing as the small thrown knife was nowhere near lethal for the lamia, he assumes it is either out hunting or tending to its wounds elsewhere.

After lighting some torches, they enter the cave with caution. The floor is uneven, and moss grows on the walls. Deep inside, they find a series of tunnels. One leads to a room littered with child-sized bones and skulls. The sight fills Castiel with sorrow, and the villagers whisper in angry tones, as the one who was hoping to find his child collapses amidst the macabre scene.

Castiel is thinking of offering comfort, when Dean pulls the man up by the arm. “Hey, you wanna get revenge on what did this?” The man nods, and Dean continues. “Then don’t sit here and cry, get angry and let’s go kill this sonovabitch.”

His speech rouses the man, and pushes the others to try to find the monster. They continue to explore, and Castiel helps lead them toward the one life force in the caverns. A sound draws their attention, and Castiel thinks it’s a child crying. The group stumbles into the room from where the sound is coming, to find a small, dirty, frightened boy. He is crying next to the body of another child, lifeless and pale from being drained of blood.

The sight has Dean staring, eyes wide, skin pale. While the villagers crowd around the young boy, Castiel steps up to Dean to check on him, finding his skin cold and clammy.

“Dean?” Castiel whispers, a steadying hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Huh?” Dean gives his head a shake as if to clear it, and focuses on Castiel. “Sure, Yeah.” He turns to face the group of villagers, his mouth in a tight-lipped frown. “Let’s get out of here before that thing comes back.”

Unfortunately, having been distracted, that Castiel wasn’t paying attention to the surrounding area. The lamia has returned, and she isn’t happy that they have reclaimed the one living child. She lets out a hissing growl, blocking the entrance, and her tail whips out, knocking one villager off his feet. Castiel and Dean place themselves between the creature and the villagers, drawing their weapons.

The lamia surges forward, and Dean lunges to meet her, hunting knife and machete swinging. He slashes the snake-tail, and parries her clawed hands. Castiel tries to circle behind the creature, blade ready to strike. But as the lamia dodges a swipe from Dean’s machete, she sees Castiel and shifts, wrapping her tail around the club in his other hand. It throws him off-balance, and he finds himself wrapped tightly in a coil of scale-covered muscle, hands trapped at his sides, angel-blade knocked away.

Castiel considers himself lucky that breathing is optional for angels, as the snake-body squeezes tighter, crushing his ribs. She turns to face the others, hissing, “If you want to sssee your companion alive, you will leave this placccce.”

The villagers back off, but Dean stays where he is, feet apart, blades in defensive position. His face is transformed by hatred and rage, and it actually frightens Castiel to see that look on Dean, to get confirmation that he is, in fact, the Prince of Hell. Managing to catch Dean’s eye, Castiel gives his head a small shake and gives him a significant look, hoping the man understands to back down. There’s not much the lamia can do to hurt an angel, but with Castiel’s powers restrained, it will be a challenge. Not having human witnesses will help.

He can see the confirmation on Dean’s face as his eyes widen, then his glower tones down to more of a scowl as he lowers his weapons and backs toward the others. The lamia gives his body another squeeze as the pulls him from the room, and before they round the corner, Castiel gives Dean a small nod. The villagers need to escape first, then the lamia can be dealt with.

The lamia drags Castiel to another cave-room, this one with a platform of uncured animal hides. This must be her nest. Without the torches it’s pitch-black, but Castiel’s vision adjusts to pick up more than just visible light, and he can see a rag tied around one of the lamia’s arms. That must be where she was injured last night by that lucky knife throw. She turns to face him, snake body still coiled tight, and she grins as she inhales his scent. Her face is close to his, and he can smell the rank breath of a creature that feeds on naught but blood and flesh.

A claw scrapes down his cheek drawing blood, and the lamia moans as she licks it off. “Ohh, ssso sssweet!”

She pulls him closer to her nest. “What a prizssse I have found!”

The lamia nuzzles into his neck, and he can feel the scrape of sharp fangs, not yet puncturing the skin. “I ssshall drain you ssslowly, to sssavor every drop.”

Repulsed by her presence and horrified at the thought of how long it would take for an angel to perish by slow bleeding, Castiel turns his head away. He must wait until the coils loosen, then he can try to defeat the monster.

Once again distracted by circumstances, he doesn’t register another presence in the room until the lamia’s body jerks, and she cries out. As the snake body loosens from around him, Castiel looks to see the tip of his angel blade protruding from the lamia’s chest. Behind her, a red haze of demonic rage surrounds Dean, face twisted with fury, disgust, and pure hate.

Dean twists the blade, driving it deeper. “Eat this, bitch,” he growls, lip curled.

The coils around Castiel loosen enough from him to scramble free, and Dean rips the blade from the lamia’s back, blood and gore clinging to the silvery surface. As the snake torso twitches in death throes, Dean hacks at her neck with the angel blade to sever her head. Castiel pulls him off when it finally rolls free. Dean still seethes with demonic rage, and Castiel places his hands on either side of his head, catching his eyes.

“She’s dead, Dean. You must calm down.” They make eye contact, and he can already sense the shift. “That’s it, listen to the sound of my voice. Control your demonic force, dampen it.”

Castiel sends a tiny, calming pulse of Grace through his hands, and Dean gasps, the fury fading from him. Shoulders slumping, Dean closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean opens his eyes, and begins checking Castiel over for wounds. “Are you okay?”

Castiel nods, and pulls Dean’s hands into his. “Thank you. Without my blade, I don’t know how long it would have taken for me to escape and deal with the lamia on my own.”

Dean pulls his hands from Castiel’s grasp with a cough, as he turns to the side, one hand on the back of his neck. “Yeah, no problem.” With a grunt, he backs up and surveys the lamia’s corpse. “We should burn this.”

It’s as they’re hauling the corpse out of the cave that Castiel realizes what happened. He sent a pulse of Grace into Dean, and he didn’t have a negative reaction to it.

Outside the cave, in blessed daylight, the villagers are huddled around the child, weapons drawn. When they see Dean and Castiel carrying the body of the lamia, there is a mixture of surprised shouts, happiness, and vicious satisfaction. The man who lost a child beats at the monstrous corpse with his fists, overcome with loss and frustration.

Once the group has sufficiently calmed down, they decide that two villagers will take the young boy into town. Meanwhile, the deputy and grieving father will help them set a fire for the lamia, and begin the process of removing the remains of the dead children. It isn’t long before they start a fire in a small clearing near the cave, the lamia’s flesh smoking as the flames destroy it.

Castiel and Dean monitor the makeshift pyre, keeping it fed with wood so it will burn hot enough to reduce the body to ash. They stand next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, watching the flames.

Once again, Castiel thinks over what happened in the cave, the sight of Dean consumed with demonic power and yet able to wield Castiel’s holy weapon. The man is such a conundrum. On one hand, he seems indifferent to the suffering of man, willing to leave the village to its troubles. Yet once he agreed to help, Dean buckled down and did everything possible to help. The sight of the dead child obviously affected Dean deeply, and Castiel wonders what Hell has put him through to cause that reaction.

Castiel turns to ask Dean about it, when he notices Dean staring intently at him. The words dry up in his throat as Dean reaches out to gently touch where the Lamia clawed his cheek, and he becomes aware of the tacky blood. There’s a look that Castiel can’t define in Dean’s eyes.

“You alright?” Dean chokes out.

“I believe the lamia carries some sort of anticoagulant to keep wounds flowing freely, otherwise it should be completely healed by now.” Castiel holds still as Dean draws closer, possibly to get a better look at the wound. “It will be fine shortly.”

Dean comes even closer, and Castiel can’t help but be acutely aware of their proximity to each other. Dean’s breath is warm on his cheek, and a thumb grazes his jaw. There’s a warm, firm pressure as… Is Dean licking him? Dean’s hand cups the back of Castiel’s head, and the other comes up to cradle the other side of his face, as Dean slowly laps up the bloody residue on Castiel’s cheek.

He has never been party to something so… so intimate, and it floods Castiel with a strange warmth. A low sound emanates from Dean’s throat as he traces the almost healed scrape with the tip of his tongue, hands hot on Castiel’s skin where he’s held in place. Soft, wet touches of lips and tongue make their way down Castiel’s jaw and his neck, as Dean continues cleaning his skin. The sensation is overwhelming, and without thinking, Castiel reaches up and clings to Dean’s shoulders.

Dean reverses his path, and traces over Castiel skin again, with a softer touch, up Castiel’s neck, along his jaw, and back up to his cheek. Everywhere Dean has touched feels hot, and Castiel wonders if this is some kind of demon thing. He should ask. But then Dean’s lips are right next to his, tongue catching a fleck of blood at the corner of his mouth. They are so close, bodies almost touching, hot breath blowing across his mouth and cheek, and that’s when Castiel notices his own heavy breathing, lips parted, and… wanting… something…

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls Dean away from him, and Castiel feels the loss of his heat with a note of having missed something important. He will have to analyze what happened to try and figure it out. Blinking as he clears his thoughts, Castiel notices that Dean is bent over the pile of wood, carefully selecting the next piece to feed to the blaze. Accepting the armload of wood the villager brought, Castiel works on calming his thoughts and the strange reactions his body had to Dean’s ministrations.

* * *

A tension grows between them, and Dean avoids looking Castiel in the eye. Dean stays silent, and Castiel accedes, feeling the awkwardness grow as they head back to the village. There are parents weeping over the jumbled piles of bone, with no way of telling what belongs to who. Amidst the scene, Dean and Castiel sneak into the constabulary, grab their things, and leave the villagers to their grief, their one comfort is the knowledge the lamia will not take another child.

The awkward tension continues as they travel down the road, and Castiel settles in the silence to think about his reaction to Dean. Perhaps there was also some sort of poison in the lamia’s claws. That could partially explain the inexplicable heat he felt at Dean’s touch. But it doesn’t explain the heat that rises back within him at the thought of Dean’s mouth on his skin, the strange desire for more.


	5. Chapter 5

When they arrive back at the hut, there’s a sealed letter attached to their door. Dean snatches it, mutters “Crowley,” and heads inside. Castiel follows behind, and begins unloading their purchases. Nothing in the letter seems to lift Dean’s spirits, and he throws the paper down with a sigh, stomping right back out the door again. Castiel watches him head down to the stream, and he keeps his attention firmly focused on Dean and the surrounding area. It’s possible something noticed Dean’s outburst near the village, and they will need to be extra vigilant for the near future.

After Castiel has put away their fresh supplies, he glances at Crowley’s letter. It’s written in an obscure Hell dialect, and only seems to contain pleasantries, and notes he will visit again. Sure it contains some hidden message that Dean was able to decipher, he places the letter carefully back where he found it.

By the time Dean comes back inside, Castiel has made a simple meal, which Dean eats in silence. The rest of the evening is spent with Dean avoiding interacting with or even looking at Castiel, who is beginning to think he should find some sort of hobby with which to occupy himself. Dean goes to bed early, but Castiel can tell he’s not sleeping, just laying there facing the wall. It is well past the middle of the night when Dean finally sleeps, and Castiel feels some of the oppressive pressure lift. Perhaps things will be better in the morning.

* * *

As soon as the sun has fully risen, Castiel sets about quietly starting his daily tasks. The fire needs tending, and Dean’s breakfast prepared. Expecting the man to sleep in, Castiel makes something that can sit and cool, and covers it with a cloth. That done, he takes his cooking implements outside to wash in the bright sunshine. By the time Dean wakes, Castiel has also washed their clothes, and it is drying on ropes stretched across poles.

All morning, Castiel has been thinking about how long it’s been since he’s taken care of his wings. The weather is lovely, and promises to be very warm. It’s perfect for preening. Dean continues to avoid him, so as it approaches mid-day, Castiel grabs a basket and says he’s going to go foraging for mushrooms and root vegetables in the forest. Dean grunts in response, so Castiel heads out with the promise of returning in time to make supper.

He feels a small amount of guilt as he heads into the woods near the hut. It’s not like he’s lying, he’s just omitting a detail about his outing. Still, Castiel makes an effort to actually look for mushrooms, while also looking for a suitable space to preen. Since he’s in hiding, it’s not something he wishes to do out in the open, but he will need a space large enough for his wings to stretch out all the way. While his mushroom hunt has so far turned out uneventful, Castiel does find a suitable clearing.

The area is large enough for him to stretch out both wings to full width, and the canopy above allows plenty of sunlight, while still concealing his location unless directly above. The ground is soft with wild grass and moss, and there is a log upon which one can sit it they choose. Setting down his empty basket, Castiel strips off his shirt. After laying it across the log, he sits cross-legged in the middle of the clearing and concentrates.

For the first time in three weeks, his wings burst into appearance, unfurling as he stretches them wide in relief. While his wings are anatomically similar to a bird’s, his feathers are far from typical. The long flight feathers are downy, with long, flowing plumules. Iridescent in the sunlight, they’re a deep indigo-black. The undersides are only slightly lighter, the purplish hue more apparent.

Left wing carefully relaxed onto the forest floor, Castiel begins preening the right wing, straightening feathers and removing loose ones. As he runs his fingers through the soft down, his feathers grow warm in the sun, and Castiel relaxes further.

Thoughts about his current situation occupy his mind during the menial task. A celestial being hiding in the mortal realm, because he cannot stop helping people. This is his situation. Not only because he saved the Prince of Hell’s life, but also because he fed an infernal being his holy blood to do it. And Dean apparently _enjoys_ it.

Castiel thinks back to the time Dean licked the blood from his finger, and again after fighting the lamia. Dean’s pupils were dilated, heart rate elevated. If Castiel didn’t know any better, he would say Dean had been aroused. But that would mean Castiel also felt arousal while Dean was licking… No. He was just affected by the moment, that is all. He focuses on his task with efficiency, chasing away stray thoughts.

Right wing finished, he stretches it out, and gives it a good flap. After chasing down the stray plucked feathers, he places them in the basket, and starts preening the left one. Perhaps they can be sold. He has seen humans wear feathers as decoration, and they also make good writing implements. There are ways of removing the magical properties of angelic feathers, and it would help Castiel be less of a burden.

While thinking of angelic powers, Castiel ponders the effect of angelic blood consumption on a demonic entity. The first time Castiel used his blood, Dean had a fever afterward. Is it possible the Grace contained within his blood might harm Dean in some way? What if it’s purifying him of some of the demonic taint? It’s true, Dean’s soul has grown less dark since they first met, but that could be due to numerous factors, such as being separated from Hell for so long, or the suppression tattoo Castiel placed on him.

He remembers the way Dean didn’t react negatively to the calming surge of Grace back in the Lamia’s nest. Castiel hadn’t been thinking, he’d just reacted. What if it _had_ affected Dean badly? Perhaps, because of their proximity, Dean is becoming more in-tune with Castiel’s wavelength.

Still deep in thought as he finishes straightening the primaries on his left wing, Castiel almost doesn’t notice an approaching angelic presence. When he does, it startles him to his feet, and he shakes out his wings into a defensive posture. Wings raised, feathers ruffled, he watches as an angel lands in the clearing. He would try to flee, if he didn’t recognize the speckled brown feather patterns.

“Balthazar?” Of all the angels who could have ended up finding him, it has to be this one.

“Cassie!” Immediately upon landing, Balthazar’s wings curl into a submissive posture, tight to his body, with the top joints lowered. He holds his empty hands out, and looks Castiel over.

“We were so worried!” He notices the tattoo on Castiel’s abdomen. “Why… Why are you wearing a ward that hides your presence?”

“I can explain.”

Balthazar straightens. “I hope so. Do you realize your sister Anael is so desperate, she sent _me_ to look for you?”

He has a point. “Then I guess it was the right decision then, wasn’t it?” Castiel relaxes his wings, and begins picking up feathers. He has to think of something, and he hopes the task gives him time. He can feel Balthazar’s gaze on him as he drops the feathers into the basket. When he straightens back up, Balthazar is giving him an impatient look.

“You going to give me the explanation here, or in Heaven?”

“I… I can’t go back right now.”

Balthazar raises his eyebrows. “And why is that?”

Perhaps the only angel who would understand is Balthazar, but he can’t trust him with such a secret. “Because… Anael asked me to investigate something, and I need to remain hidden to do it. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to send her word. Please, Balthazar. You must not tell anyone that you’ve found me.”

“Even Anael?”

With clenched jaw, Castiel sighs in exasperation and looks into the woods. He’s going to have to give his friend _something_. “Do you have anything with which to write a note?”

Giving Castiel a look that says ‘who do you take me for,’ Balthazar pulls a small notebook and pencil from his jacket. He hands it over and says, “It would be easier if I could just relay the message.”

“And risk the information falling into the wrong hands?” Castiel flips open the notebook. “I trust you, I do. But if you get intercepted or tortured, it’s bad enough you know my location. We can’t risk you also knowing what I’m investigating.”

And it’s all mostly true. If Balthazar has even the slightest notion what is happening here... well, he’s not known for his discretion. Given the right motivation, he might accidentally let something slip. Even if he’s the one angel who might help Castiel make sense of what’s been happening with Dean lately. Out of all of the angels, Balthazar, while close to being labeled Fallen, has the best grasp on humanity and how humans think.

While Castiel tries to compose a short letter that won’t give too much away, yet will make Anael pull back the search, he hears something in the forest. Dean’s voice calls out, “Cas?”

Oh no. Why now of all times, is Dean looking for him? What happened to the stony avoidance? He ignores Balthazar’s raised eyebrow as he continues to scribble out a note about human toys and how he might have found a way to locate the one Anael has been looking for. Castiel is terrible at subterfuge, but he hopes it’s enough. It references their last conversation at least. Just as he finishes drawing the sigil that will allow only Anael to read it, Dean stumbles into the clearing.

Balthazar already has his blade drawn, wings in an aggressive posture. Dean has a hand on his dagger, staring wide-eyed between the two angels, but ready to spring into action. Castiel raises a placating hand. “It’s alright, you can both put your weapons away.”

He desperately tries to remember if other angels know the given name of the Prince of Hell. He hopes not. Or at least if they do, perhaps Balthazar isn’t one of them. “Dean, this is Balthazar, a trusted friend. Balthazar, this is Dean, a…” _THINK of something_! “A hunter. He is… helping me with my task. The one that Anael assigned me.”

Dean stands there a moment with a blank look, then catches on and inclines his head at Balthazar. “Yeah, I’m helping him with the… the _thing…_ that we can’t talk about, because it’s… super secret.” He turns to Castiel. “Does he know about the thing?”

Castiel closes his eyes briefly. _Father is testing my patience, I know it_. “Not enough to discuss it freely.”

He watches Balthazar, who seems to accept the answer, even though he’s now giving both Dean and Castiel a speculative look. _Oh please don’t notice how corrupted Dean’s soul is! Please don’t look too close!_

With a clap of his hands, Balthazar turns to Castiel, breaking the tension. “Well! I must be on my way then.” He turns to point at Dean, “You watch Cassie’s back, hear me?”

Dean nods, his eyes tracking to Castiel.

“Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to have a quick word before I fly.” Balthazar slips an arm around Castiel’s still-bare shoulders, and turns them away from Dean, towards the other side of the clearing. He gives Castiel a knowing grin.

“That’s quite a handsome partner you have there.”

Castiel blinks at him blankly. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Balthazar winks at him. “I never took you to go for the rugged type, but it’s nice to see the fledgling all grown up at last.”

Utterly confused, Castiel furrows his brow as he blinks at the words. They make no sense. He hands over the note, now folded with a small feather tucked inside. “Please make sure Anael gets this, and let her know I’m safe.”

“I will.” Balthazar tucks the note into an inner pocket, gives Castiel’s shoulder another squeeze, and leans in to whisper, “At least you don’t have to worry about nephilim.”

Castiel freezes as the implication of Balthazar’s words finally sinks in. That… to think about… with Dean… With a wave of his hand and a swish of brown wings, Balthazar is gone, leaving Castiel rooted to the spot and starting to blush. Head awhirl with Balthazar’s words, he’s startled when Dean calls to him. Suddenly aware that he is shirtless, and his _wings are out_ , Castiel struggles to control the urge to curl them around himself protectively and stays facing away from the man.

“What is it, Dean?”

“I was wondering, could I, um… touch them?”

What? Dean wants to touch… “ _No_!” Castiel coughs out the word too fast and too loud, the single syllable seeming to echo in the small clearing.

Dean shuffles behind him, mumbles something, and heads out of the clearing. He has the basket of feathers, and leaves Castiel with his shirt on the log, the sunlight no longer offering a cheerful warmth on his wings. With one last stretch, he tucks them away again, and pulls on his shirt as he follows Dean back to the hut. So much for breaking the awkwardness between them.

* * *

 

As soon as Cas left the hut, Dean felt like an ass. But he just couldn't… _can’t_ deal with whatever this… thing is that’s developing between them. Add to everything the fact that Crowley’s last letter wasn’t encouraging, as he talked about how Abaddon has been taking over more and more of Hell in a slow militaristic acquisition. So here he is, sitting by the stream, fishing line in the water, thinking.

There’s definitely something about Cas’ blood. Licking it off of his face and neck, Dean had felt… some kind of _connection_ between them. It sounds stupid, but it was like he was actually taking in a part of _Cas_. It feels like it’s purifying him just a little, and if he gets enough, it _burns_ in a _good_ way. And that kinda makes him horny. If it hadn’t been for the interrupting villager, he was half a breath away from kissing Cas. And he’s pretty sure Cas would have kissed him back, too. But Cas is an _angel_. The _enemy_. Well, after this is over and they both go back to where they belong, they’ll be enemies again. Right now it’s a partnership of necessity.

He should go looking for Cas though. He should try to clear the air between them, because it’s not like it’s Dean’s fault he’s fucked up in the head and gets turned on by the taste of Cas’ blood. Hell, Cas _is_ kinda hot, in a weird, dorky way. If the guy wasn’t an angel, Dean might have tried to hit on that. But Dean grew up in Hell, and has a list of kinks as long as his arm, and some of those would kill a regular human. He just has to remember Cas is from _Heaven_. Not like he’d want anything to do with a tainted being like Dean.

Determined to at least try to make their situation less miserable, Dean puts away his fishing pole and heads into the woods where he knows Cas went foraging. He doesn’t get very far when he senses… something _not Cas_. It’s in the same direction he can feel Cas, so he rushes forward.

He calls out before getting to the clearing, and stumbles into the open space. His first reaction is that there’s another dude with wings, big brown ones like a game bird. Then he notices Cas, shirtless, his own wings on display. And _Holy Shit_.

They’re huge, dark, and look impossibly soft. He can’t register much more though, because his instincts - and the angel sword in the guy’s hand - peg Mr. Brown Wings as a threat. Hand on his knife, Dean looks between the two angels. Cas says it’s alright, but Dean remains wary as he’s introduced to Balthazar.

While Cas makes up some lame excuse for his presence, Dean can’t help but take in the sight of his bare torso, and those _wings_. Damn, but he wants to do dirty things with those soft feathers. Hell, he might just be satisfied to touch them, fall asleep embedded in their softness. Not that he’d admit that to anyone. He realizes he’s staring, and Cas has finished speaking. Dammit, what was he talking about?

It’s all Dean can manage to try to make coherent noises, but he thinks he just manages to sound stupid, if Cas’ expression is anything to go by. Realizing this Balthazar guy might be able to read what he is, since he’s _right in front of him_ , Dean tries to make sure he’s not giving off _Denizen of Hell_ vibes. But Brown Wings just gives Dean this weird look, tells him to keep an eye out for “Cassie”, and pulls Cas off to the side for some super secret angel chat. Boy, someone’s gonna get teased about _that_ nickname.  

Dean uses the opportunity to take another good look at Cas’ wings. Unlike the angel himself, they’re constantly in motion, expressive. They make Dean think of someone who talks with their hands, and he wonders what those wings are saying. They shift, pull in tight, curl forward. The last thing Brown Wings says causes Cas’ wings to ruffle and twitch, and Dean can’t help but think it looks like surprise, maybe embarrassment.

The angel departs, and Dean thinks that went pretty well, considering he doesn’t have an angel blade sticking out of him. Cas stays turned away, his wings still twitching, feathers ruffled. Out of curiosity, Dean wonders if Cas would let him touch them. It couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

Wrong. Cas’ rejection rings in his ears, so Dean tears his eyes away and down to the basket full of downy feathers. Of _course_ he wouldn’t be allowed to touch them. “I’ll just head back then.”

Picking up the basket, he heads out of the clearing. Once he’s far enough away, he takes a deep breath and looks at the fluffy mass in the basket. The colors of feathers range from a soft amethyst, to royal purple, to almost black. It’s a guilty pleasure to shove his hand into the downy softness, considering the verbal slap Cas just gave him.

One feather in particular draws his attention. It’s no longer than his palm, has lighter colored fluff near the shaft, with a darker, iridescent pointed tip. Because he can’t resist, he pockets it to keep.

* * *

For the next couple of days it’s still awkward between them, neither knowing what to say. Whenever they do speak to each other, it’s usually in short, abbreviated sentences, or single word replies. Dean finds it hard to look at Cas without thinking about huge, soft wings, and the play of strong muscles under golden skin. This keeps him out of the hut more frequently, and he is often to be found down at the little pond, fishing and whittling little pieces of wood.

Today he manages to catch a couple of small fish, and he preps them for cooking with efficiency. When he brings them in, Cas is looking through one of Sam’s herbal books, an array of greenery before him. Dean can usually ignore Cas’ herb experiments, but today he’s using his own angel blade to chop up everything.

Curious, Dean stops to watch. Cas notices and looks up, blue eyes wide with surprise. They stand like that for just a moment, eyes locked. It’s Cas who looks away first, down at the green stains on his blade. Dean can’t help but say something.

“There a reason you’re using that for veggies, Cas?”

Giving that thoughtful little frown of his, Cas scrapes the pile of greenery together. “I was curious to see if using my blade would impart any additional benefits.”

It’s the most they’ve said to each other in a single interaction, and Dean wants to ask more, but he’s clueless about that herbal stuff. “Any of that go with fish?”

Cas gets a scrunched-up look on his face when he thinks. “I don’t see why not.”

Dean takes the finely chopped pile of herbs, and smells mint. He also thinks he recognizes fennel, and there’s the ever present wild onion. It should taste good, at least. While debating if he should just throw it on top of the fish or stuff it, he hears Cas’ sharp intake of breath.

Wondering what’s wrong, he turns to see Cas standing at the table, his angel blade in one hand, and looking down at a bloody finger. Dean would probably wonder how Cas managed to cut himself doing nothing, if his attention wasn’t riveted at the sight of bright red blood welling from a nick at the tip of Cas’ pointer finger. He makes himself hold still, but licks his lips at the sight of a ruby red drop escaping the wound, leaving a trail as it travels to the knuckle where it gathers with more, before forming a large drop that splashes onto the table top.

Holding back a whimper, Dean tells himself he doesn’t need it, even as his mouth fills with saliva. But Cas looks up at Dean, cocks his head, and holds the finger out to him. How can Dean say no? It only takes a couple steps to reach him. One hand on Cas’ elbow and the other at his wrist, Dean wraps his tongue around the knuckle before another drop can be lost.

There is definitely something addictive about Cas’ blood, and the first taste makes Dean shudder. As he takes the finger into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it and suckling, he opens his eyes to see Cas staring at him with rapt attention, pupils dilated. Oh, yeah. The angel likes this, too. Dean smirks around Cas’ finger, grazing his teeth across the skin. Cas actually blushes, but doesn’t look away.

And there goes Dean’s dick, taking interest in all of this. Images of all the dirty things he’s thought of doing to Cas flash though his mind as he suckles on the angel’s finger, eliciting a groan. Cas’ breath hitches, and his eyes flutter closed as he reaches out, grasping Dean’s forearm. The blush intensifies, spreading down Cas’ neck.

Dean strokes small circles with his thumb along Cas’ wrist, and he can feel the increased pulse. Unfortunately, the blood flow from the wound has stopped, and it takes all of Dean’s willpower to not nip the tip of Cas’ finger, opening another wound. A thought rises up, Cas strapped down and spread out on the rack, Dean’s razor-sharp blade causing the blood to flow like sheets down the angel’s naked body. Blood soaked wings splay out on either side, twitching uselessly.

Wait, this… that isn’t _right_. Dean chokes, letting go of Cas and stepping back as he gasps for air. All at once he feels nauseous, and he runs outside, collapsing onto his knees to retch into the grass. The thought of Cas in Hell, on the rack… He gags and spits out a mouthful of bile.

Even though Dean grew up to be very good at what he does, maybe even enjoy it, he’s always been able to tell himself that those he worked on deserved it. Every cut and every scream was what they deserved. But… an angel being tortured… and _Cas_? What the fuck is wrong with him? Cas is an angel, and so pure he spared the Prince of Hell’s life when he could have just let Dean drown, or even slit his throat, helped the process along. And here Dean is, getting off on thoughts of Cas being _tortured_. His stomach lurches, but nothing comes of it.

Dean has to stop this, whatever the hell _this_ is. While the thought of dirtying the angel’s wings is both arousing and attractive to the part of Dean that accepted Hell’s teachings, another part of him rejects the thought of Cas ever seeing any part of that. He’s just gotta stop it with Cas’ blood, and deny any of the attraction he feels. Because all he’ll do is ruin the angel. And Cas deserves so much more than that.

Wiping the cold sweat from his brow, Dean sits back on his heels and takes a breath. He’ll just pretend this never happened. Wash his face in the stream, make like everything’s fine, and go cook some fish. As his stomach clenches, Dean wonders how he’s going to manage to eat it.

* * *

 

With Dean having dashed outside, Castiel rocks back on his heels, the breath stolen from his lungs. That… that was… unexpected. It had started out as a random thought about Dean, and about how the man reacts to his blood. Just to test it, Cas had nicked the tip of his finger with his blade. Dean’s initial reaction was as expected. What he hadn’t expected was his _own_ reaction to _Dean_.

An intense jolt of some kind of… longing had ripped through him. When Dean made eye contact, a rush of heat made his skin tingle. Rational thought ceased, and all he could focus on was Dean. The sun-lightened hair, his glittering green eyes, the smattering of freckles, those soft lips wrapped around his finger. Then Dean noticed his attention, and did something that made Castiel _aroused_. There was no denying the sensation this time, and he closed his eyes in the hopes of reining it in. Except his next inhalation of breath brought Dean’s scent. Earthy and rich, it was intoxicating, and he needed to grasp onto Dean for support.

But then something had happened. For just a moment, Castiel was connected with Dean, and he’d gotten a glimpse of his mind. The imagery found there was disturbing, and apparently Dean thought so, too. He had backed away, gasping, and dashed outside. It succeeded in dampening that strange passion in both of them.

However, it now leaves Castiel questioning what those feelings mean. And possibly the only angel Castiel can ask is Balthazar. Who, to be completely honest, is probably not the best angel from which to seek advice.

With a sigh, Castiel mentally shakes himself from his ponderings. Besides, it seems Dean has recovered and is returning. He avoids looking directly at Dean as the man goes about quietly finishing the preparations for his meal. When Dean barely touches his food, Castiel pretends to not notice. And when Dean spends most of the evening staring blankly at the wall or ceiling instead of sleeping, Castiel occupies his time with one of Sam’s texts.

The next morning, Castiel feels strangely drained. It’s odd how Dean’s restless sleep also seems to affect him. Just after sunrise, he senses an angelic presence. It’s Balthazar, and he quickly heads outside to meet with him. Something must alert Balthazar to his distress, if the first words out of his mouth are any indication.

“Trouble in paradise, Cassie?”

Not in the mood to handle Balthazar’s inquiry, Castiel gives him a flat look. “Is there a reason you’re here?”

“Ooh, touchy. You know, if loverboy needs some tips,”

“Balthazar!”

“Fine, fine.” He reaches into a pocket and retrieves a note. “This is from Anael, and she insisted I deliver it personally.”

Castiel retrieves the folded over parchment, and breaks the seal to reveal two small feathers, one a speckled brown, the other a light pink. It lets Castiel know that Balthazar is the one who is supposed to deliver the message, and Anael is the one who wrote it. Inside, the missive is carefully worded in Enochian, and suggests he not stay in one place for too long. It also mentions that should Castiel ever need anything, to pray directly to Anael.

There’s a sidenote about Balthazar having said something crude about Castiel’s predicament, but Anael knows better. This gives Castiel pause, because the truth… It’s actually closer to Balthazar’s assumptions. Thinking about yesterday causes Castiel’s face to warm, and he turns away from Balthazar to finish reading the message.

The end has a small passage about starlings, and how it’s lucky to find one this far south. Anael often compares Castiel to birds with dark feathers, and that part lets him know that nobody has a clue where he is. Other than Balthazar and Anael, of course.

Giving a warm smile at the small pink feather, Castiel turns to Balthazar. “Please let Anael know I will take her suggestions under advisement. Now if you don’t mind, we need to prepare for travel.”

Balthazar pouts. “But I just got here.” He places his hands on Castiel’s shoulders. “Can’t I hang around a little bit longer? It’s so _boring_ in Heaven!”

Castiel refuses to acknowledge that statement, so Balthazar tries another tactic. “Unless… Is there something you don’t want me to see in there?” Balthazar gets a sly look. “Perhaps something… inappropriate?”

While Balthazar’s assumptions might be off, Castiel definitely doesn’t want another angel to see the wards on the walls, because then he might figure out that Dean is more than just a human. Unfortunately, his expression gives him away.

“Oh, is my straight-laced Captain doing something naughty with his human?”

Flustered, because the remark hits a little too close, Castiel gives him a stern look. But Balthazar notices, and gives him a wink. “Aww, don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me!”

Waggling his fingers, Balthazar says, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” before he vanishes.

Castiel turns back to the hut and murmurs, “There’s not much you wouldn't do.”

Back inside, Dean is awake but still horizontal, rubbing his face as he scowls at the light shining through the door when Castiel enters. With no more than a glance in Dean’s direction, Castiel starts preparations.

There is so much to do. In their short time here, they have accumulated possessions. There are the fresh supplies they just acquired from town that must go with them, and also an assortment of cookware, but limited carrying space. Not to mention clothing.

Being used to angelic flight, Castiel rarely carries more than a simple change of clothes. But since they will be travelling over land, he won’t even be able to take his angelic armor. Where will he hide it?

Oh, and all of Sam’s books. Perhaps he should send a message to Sam to come and get them. Maybe he can do something about the armor, too? If not, he’ll have to hide it all in a cache somewhere.

He’s at the table making notes when Dean asks, “What crawled up your butt?”

Putting down the writing instrument, Castiel says, “Nothing crawled up my…” He frowns, this must be one of Dean’s many strange sayings that should not be taken literally. “I’ve been informed it’s in our best interests to become mobile to help avoid detection.”

Dean sits up, and Castiel can see him run fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. “And?”

“And,” Castiel sighs, “you should begin preparing yourself and your belongings for travel.”

With a grunt, Dean yawns loud and wide. “What about Sam?”

“I will send him word.” Thinking the matter settled, Castiel turns his attention back to his notes.

Apparently, Dean doesn’t think that’s the end of the matter. “Hey,” he says, drawing Castiel’s attention back to him, now standing by the table. “I’m not going anywhere until we’re sure Sam’s gonna take care of shit while we’re gone.”

Of course, that’s why I writing him a message, Castiel thinks before Dean continues.

“Do you know how long we’ll be gone? What about our contacts in Heaven and Hell? Crowley will need to be able to contact me.”

Highly irritated by the possible delay, Castiel says, “Do you want to write the letter to your brother, or shall I?”

Dean stomps off, grumbling. He has even fewer possessions than Castiel, and he picks up his crown. “What’re we gonna do with this?”

He has a point. They can’t leave it out in the open, it’s the Crown of Hell, after all. Castiel mentions he’s planning a warded cache for his armor, and Dean says he’ll just put it in that. Appalled, Castiel wonders how Dean _dare_ consider placing that vile thing with his holy-crafted angelic armor.

Getting snippy, Dean complains about his attitude, but Castiel remains firm. They will create a separate cache if necessary, but the crown is _not_ resting anywhere _near_ his armor.

This is what Castiel needs, a reminder that Dean is meant for Hell, has been raised there, and is meant to lead the infernal realm. Whatever strange feelings that have arisen are unnatural and will pass, given time and distance. Eventually Dean will return to Hell to continue his rule as the enemy of Heaven. And then Castiel can try to atone for the mistakes he’s made in the past, in failing Heaven.

By the time Castiel has drafted a message to Sam, Dean is insisting they at least wait for a reply before leaving. He also takes the risk of sending a message to Crowley.

The next day, Crowley pops by to deliver an old coin that he can track without alerting anyone just who it’s attached to. Castiel doesn’t approve, but he’s hardly given an option as Dean pockets the coin and thanks his demon servant. Crowley seems to glean some satisfaction from Castiels displeasure, and smirks at him before vanishing, leaving the lingering odor of sulfur behind.

It’s the day after that when Sam arrives with a surprise. He brings a horse and cart, saying he has been meaning to travel from town to town offering healing services. His idea includes Dean and Castiel dressing as monks and traveling with him. This seems acceptable to Castiel, and Dean is happy he will be able to spend time with his brother.

Until he has to wear the coarse brown monk’s cassock. Dean hates it and complains constantly once they get on their way. Their first day on the road ends with Dean refusing to sleep in the open, and makes them travel until late in order to find an inn. But then Sam won’t let him drink anything stronger than ale, reminding him they are supposed to be traveling monks, and thus are not meant to partake in excessive food or drink. Or the pretty waitresses, Sam reminds him by kicking Dean’s shins under the table when he tries flirting.

Suggesting they move further South, Castiel enjoys the work of helping those they meet along the way. There is an elderly woman that they pick up on the way to the next town, and she is effusively grateful when Castiel subtly eases the pain of her joints after offering her an herbal infusion, her wrinkled face alight with joy as they arrive in front of the cottage of her daughter who is heavy with child.

* * *

Over the next few days they spend their time slowly making their way between towns, villages, and hamlets, helping those in need and sharing recipes for herbal remedies. As the time passes, Castiel notes Dean’s ever-increasing irritability. He’s now almost sure it has something to do with the amount of time in between Dean having had some of his blood. But knowing how it affects the both of them, it makes Castiel loath to willingly open a wound, especially with Sam present.  So he and Sam deal with Dean’s complaints, mood swings, and the strange habit Dean has developed of making noise with his cheek that sounds like short bursts of flatulence.

Night falls before they can reach the next village, and Sam insists on stopping for the evening as they still have a distance to travel. While it’s still light enough to start camp, Sam finds an area off the side of the road suitable for setting up camp, and Dean stomps off into the woods when Sam asks for firewood.

Castiel helps Sam set up the site, and then goes after Dean when he realizes the man hasn’t returned in a while. It’s possible that something might have happened, even though Castiel would have sensed any evil presence in the area. Still, there are dangers in the forest other than demonic forces, so he sends out a small burst of Grace to locate Dean. He’s not far, and Castiel orients to that location.

When he hears Dean’s labored breathing, he wonders if the man has been injured. However, what Castiel finds is Dean in a different kind of distress. Leaning against a tree trunk, Dean has his cassock open, trousers down around his thighs, one hand stroking a prominent erection, the other cupping the sac beneath. He doesn’t even flinch at Castiel’s approach. In fact, he opens his eyes, a wicked grin on his lips as he slows his hand, squeezing the shaft of his cock slowly from base to tip, thumbing through the slickness beading there.

Castiel is surprised by his physical reaction to the display, his body overcome with a wave of tingles and heat, unable to tear his gaze from the sight. Feet rooted to the spot, his own breaths becoming erratic, Castiel’s hearing picks up every hitch of Dean’s breath, the slick sounds of Dean’s fist sliding over his shaft. The wind shifts, allowing Castiel to _smell_ his arousal.

Letting out a stuttering breath, Castiel closes his eyes to the sight as his own erection becomes more prominent. This should not be happening; he has never felt such base, carnal reaction to anything or anyone before, as he does to the way Dean makes him respond.

Dean’s voice, rough and deep, rumbles into Castiel’s ears, causing a fine tremble. “You like watching?”

Castiel balls his hands into fists by his sides and swallows, his throat dry. Dean begins making these sinful moaning sounds, whispering encouragements, grunting profanity as his hand increases in speed. Unable to move, Castiel refuses to open his eyes, his own pulse rate increasing with the stroke of Dean’s fist. Heat blossoms around him as he struggles to contain the sensations awakened within him, to control his breathing.

Dean groans out his name, and Castiel grinds his teeth together, his body responding to the call. Hardened cock twitching, he refuses to give into the carnal desire, and feels his fingernails bite into the flesh of his palms. His body trembles, swaying slightly like a flame in a slight breeze.

Dean’s strained voice reaches his ears, “Don’t you wanna watch?”

And even while he shakes his head, his eyes open to take in the sight of the muscles of Dean’s arm straining, hand whipping up and down his erection, his flushed face, eyes darkened with lust. Their eyes lock, and with one final curse, “ _Fuck, Cas!_ ” Dean spills his seed onto the ground. Castiel’s body jerks in response, cock jumping against its restraints. Holding onto the last of his willpower, Castiel remains firmly in place, knuckles digging deep into the flesh of his outer thighs to keep his hands from wandering.

But Dean apparently isn’t finished quite yet. His gaze turns predatory, and as he finishes squeezing the last drop from the head of his cock, he swipes a finger through the lingering trail, brings it to his lips and licks it off. It draws an involuntary gasp from Castiel, which seems to please Dean if his smirk is any indication.

“Did you like what you saw?”

Unable to respond, Castiel jerks his head from side to side.

“Liar.” Dean’s voice is smoky, and he tucks himself back into his trousers before stalking over to Castiel, eyes searching his face. “I can smell your arousal.”

A shiver rolls through Castiel’s body in reaction to the truth in Dean’s words. Dean leans even closer, whispering about dirtying an angel, that Castiel must not be that pure, with wings as dark as his. This hits a nerve, because his dark wings are a point of contention for him. But Dean keeps going, their chests brushing as hot breath caresses Castiel’s neck and ear while Dean keeps whispering profane things.

Before he realizes it, Castiel is backed against another tree. Dean’s hands rest on either side of Castiel’s head against the bark as he drags his tongue, hot and wet, across the angel’s lips. The touch sends sparks through him, and Dean’s mouth crashes against his, forceful and with teeth clashing. He tastes blood before Dean’s tongue is invading his mouth, exploring and tasting.

Completely overwhelmed, Castiel gives in, clinging to the open edges of Dean’s cassock as he’s devoured. The sensations are dizzying, his whole body lighting up with a strange pleasure. It’s not until he feels Dean’s body pressing against his own erection that he’s jolted from the haze. All of it is just too much, and Castiel shoves Dean away from him. What are they doing? This is the opposite of what what he’d intended.

Castiel presses his hands to his face, trying to center himself. Dean mumbles an apology, and with a deep breath, Castiel lowers his hands to look at him, face impassive as he struggles to regain control of his body. He dismisses the apology, saying he should have known to keep his distance from Dean.

A brief stricken look crosses Dean’s face before he stumbles off, picking up a bundle of sticks before heading back to their camp. Yes, that’s good, it will be easier to calm down without his distracting presence. Castiel licks his lips, tasting Dean. It’s only the blood, Castiel tells himself, that causes this reaction in Dean, and in return Castiel is somehow linked to it. He won’t let himself believe any other possibility.

After he feels he has control of himself, Castiel gathers some wood and heads back to the brothers. The rest of the evening is spent in subdued silence between Dean and Castiel, while Sam wisely doesn’t pry. Later, as the men lie asleep, Castiel tries to think of a way to deal with Dean’s need for his blood, while still keeping his distance.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter, transitional chapter in between main story arcs

Together, Sam, Dean, and Castiel travel through and help many villages, some with normal maladies and problems; others with troubles more monstrous in nature.

For instance, there is the town of Elwood that had grown infested with angry, rampaging kobolds. It all started when the local clergyman attempted to exorcise the creatures from his home. Now, the typical kobold, a house-spirit not normally malicious, will occasionally help with chores and small tasks. But piss one off, and you can expect trouble.

When they arrive after hearing of the town’s plight, it is in disarray. People walk around in disheveled clothing, animals run loose in the streets. They reach the center of town to find a small, floating flame chasing a gray-haired man through the square, the edge of his nightshirt on fire.

It takes them over a week to rid the town of the pesky creatures. They’re related to fairies, and must be captured individually in iron cages, then banished using a naming ritual. By the time they finish, Sam admonishes the clergyman for irritating the kobolds in the first place. After all, it doesn’t take much to keep a kobold happy, just feed them some sweetened gruel, maybe a little ale, and never insult them (or try to exorcise them).

And then there’s the lake monster of Dubrava, that had broken a dam, thus flooding the village and killing survivors one by one. They arrive just as the townspeople are holding a bonfire to burn the victims. The creature is called Vodyanoy, and regular weapons seem to do it no harm. Castiel is the first one to encounter it, and it is an ugly, frog-faced creature with stringy, black hair. His angel blade slices cleanly through it, and the vodyanoy turns to water as it escapes.

The next night, they borrow the largest copper pot the village owns, trap the creature in it, and boil it to death with salt over a roaring fire, surrounded in a circle of flames in case it tries to escape. When the village tries to give them gifts as thanks, Sam declines, saying they need all they can to help recover from their tragedy.

It’s when they’re on a long stretch of a lesser-traveled road that they run into a band of orcs. They settle down for the evening, and Castiel goes in search of fresh water. He barely senses any alarm from Dean, and by the time he makes it back to their campsite, they are gone, along with their horse and cart.

It’s easy to track where they’ve gone, due to both the foul odor and their tracks. At the sight of the orc camp, Dean and Sam slumped over in a heap, it takes all of Castiel’s willpower to not rush in to save them. The large number - he estimates fifteen - of squat, piggish looking creatures makes him pause, and as soon as he can see that both Dean and Sam are breathing, he slips into the trees to strategize. Thankfully, the orcs eat the horse first, and Castiel hopes it didn’t suffer too much in its death throes. It doesn’t take long for the orcs to reduce the animal to bones, and they’re soon cracking the bones to get at the marrow.

Castiel sees his chance when one separates from the group, heading into the woods possibly to relieve itself. Luring it further from camp by mimicking the sound of a wounded animal, Castiel easily slits its throat from behind before it can call to its comrades. He continues picking them off one at a time in this fashion, until their numbers have dwindled, and the orcs have started to catch on.

With about eight of them left, the orcs roar out and stomp off into the forest as a group, leaving only two behind to watch the camp. while orcs are strong, they’re no match for an angel’s agility, and Castiel soon dispatches the two guards. Untying the brothers, he finds they both have large lumps on the backs of their heads where they’ve been knocked out. It takes but a moment to heal them, a touch to each of their wounds, and he rouses them carefully, afraid of them reacting violently.

Sam startles but remains quiet; Castiel must cover Dean’s mouth when he cries out and flails upon rousing. With the horse gone and the cart splintered into firewood, they grab whatever they can carry and slip away from the campsite. Unfortunately, the orcs will be able to scent their trail and give chase. With only six left, they devise a plan to finish off the rest of the group.

Dean takes one of their packs, covers it with a shirt in need of cleaning, and hangs it from a branch. Then they fall back and wait for the orcs to notice it. Eventually the orcs pick up their trail, and come barreling through the trees. As expected, they pause at the pack, ripping it apart. Sam, Dean, and Castiel surround them, and quickly finish the orcs off utilizing the element of surprise. With the battle over, Sam catches his breath while Dean sits on a stump, cleaning the gore from his weapon.

Castiel is looking at the bodies, and realizes there are five, not six. Had he miscounted? He looks up and calls out as he sees an orc rushing the brothers, a huge club over its head. Dean pushes Sam out of the way, barely missing the downswing of the monster’s weapon. It stumbles past, then turns for another pass. Castiel stands straight in its path, and this time the orc swings its club horizontally. Castiel ducks, and deftly rams his blade up through its ribcage.

After they’re sure it’s dead, they roll the orc over to retrieve Castiel’s blade. They gather the rest of their belongings, and make their way back to the road. It’s pre-dawn before anyone is willing to stop and rest, this time without a fire, right on the side of the road. Thankfully, later that morning, a trader passes by and offers them a lift to the next town.

* * *

 

Sam agrees to stay at the inn for the night, much to Dean’s relief. Thankfully, the pouches with their money and valuables are untouched, so they have enough for now. After Dean changes out of the monk’s cassock and into regular clothes, he goes to gamble in order to line their pockets, leaving Sam and Castiel to sort through what’s left of their belongings.

Sam watches Castiel peruse a tear in a shirt, most likely debating if it’s worth stitching it back together. With an awkward cough, Sam says. “Hey, Cas?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“When’s the last time you, um… gave Dean his… supplement?”

It’s a sensitive topic, one that took way too much digging to get at the heart of the matter. He of course had noticed Dean growing more and more irritable before, and then after Cas had gone to look for him that one time, they’d both come back avoiding even looking at each other, but Dean’s irritability had eased. It took until midday for Sam to finally sit Dean down and ask him what the problem was. Since his brother refused to answer, he’d then turned to Cas.

Castiel acted extremely uncomfortable during Sam’s questions, and eventually admitted what he’d been doing to alleviate Dean’s symptoms. It’s something Sam had almost expected. He’d noticed the demon Crowley’s reaction to Castiel having used his blood to heal Dean. Now it appears his brother has developed a dependence on it.

Sam had asked what happened that caused them to avoid each other. Castiel got defensive and closed off again, until he admitted that Dean became aroused while being fed his blood. Well. That seemed… awkward. And he suddenly understood why Cas would be so closed off after something like that. Together, Sam and Castiel came up with a solution to test the next time Dean began to grow irritable.

Cas would simply bleed a small cut into a beverage of some sort, and see if that made Dean feel better without them having to touch. It worked. As long as Cas did that every few days, Dean didn’t get grouchy, and Cas wouldn’t have to deal with unwanted advances.

They’ve been on the road a few days, and Sam can’t remember when the last time was that Cas had to cut himself. Cas says it’s early, but it should be alright to go ahead and give Dean some more. That’s good, because what Sam needs to say will require Dean to be in the best mood possible.

* * *

 

Dean makes his way back to their room late in the evening, having enjoyed multiple flagons of some very good ale. He’s also done well at the gambling tables, and has enough to replace all their wardrobes. When he swaggers into the room, he sees Sam and Cas’ serious faces. Bleh. Always so serious, those two. They need to learn to lighten up, live a little. Cas stands up and holds out a cup.

“I’m not thirsty, pal.”

“Dean, you need to drink this.” Cas’ voice is a deep timbre that he really enjoys listening to.

“I just filled up on really good ale, so no. Maybe in the morning? Some hair of the dog?”

“Dean,” And there’s Sammy, he of the soft and caring voice, now with a chiding tone. “It’s one cup, and you need to drink it.”

Oh. Is it time for that already? “Gimme that.” He swipes the cup from Cas’ hand and takes a whiff. Yup, plain water, with that tangy hint of Cas blood.

“Bottoms up!”

He gulps it down, and he feels that low hum of warmth in his belly along with the happy glow of ale. Although getting his fix this way doesn’t feel as good as straight from the source. Pity. Handing the cup back, Dean thumps down at the edge of a bed, and starts pulling his boots off.

“I’m gonna enjoy a good night’s sleep, and then in the morning, there’s gonna be breakfast and a good, long bath.”

“Dean.” Oh, here’s Sammy again, and he can hear the frown in his tone, he doesn’t even have to look. So he doesn’t.

“Can’t it wait till morning?” he hears himself whine.

“I need to head back to the monastery tomorrow.”

Well that doesn’t make sense. Dean blinks at Sam. “But we just got here!”

“Yeah, after having almost everything destroyed.” Sam sighs. Kid could always say so much in a sigh. “They need to know about the band of orcs. There might be more.”

Dean’s tired. Tired of hearing Sam’s voice, of keeping his eyes open. There’s a pillow calling his name. Grunting, Dean tilts to the side, letting gravity do its thing as he flops over. “We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

* * *

It’s morning, and Sam’s awake too early. Cas never sleeps, but at least he’s quiet about it. But Dean’s younger brother, he has to huff, and shift in his chair, crumple papers, and just make noise in general.

Ugh. His mouth tastes like something died in it, and the light’s just this shade of too bright. It’s not a hangover, just annoying. Practically rolling out of bed, Dean blearily makes use of the chamberpot, in a spectacular piss that not even Sam’s grossed out noises can ruin. After washing off his hands and running fingers through his hair, Dean feels a little more awake.

Sam talks about going back to the monastery again. Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Important research, logging the creatures they’ve found. And of course the orcs. Gotta make sure they’re under control.

“Hey, if you leave, does that mean I don’t have to wear the stupid monk dress again?”

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. Dean can’t help it, because he always hates when one or the other has to go. And besides, it’s a long trip back to the monastery. So he says so.

“Actually, there are some merchants heading in that direction, so I’ll be with a caravan. They’ve already agreed to take me.”

Well doesn’t Sam just have everything worked out. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then. What you need me for?”

There go Sam’s eyebrows, making that concerned crease. “I know you and Cas haven’t been getting along the best lately, and I want you to promise you’ll try to be nice.”

With a pout, Dean crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “I’m always nice.”

“Dean,”

“Fine, fine. I won’t try to piss him off on purpose.”

* * *

Dean gets his bath, but it’s not as relaxing as he hoped. He does hug his brother before he has to leave with the caravan, though. He also learns to not send Cas out clothes shopping, because they now have matching shirts and trousers. It’s almost tempting to wear that damn cassock again. But he promised Sam he’d be good, so after thanking Cas, Dean puts on his new clothes, but promises himself to pick up something different along the way.


	7. Chapter 7

They spend one more night in town before heading back out on the road. It’s a few days later while going east when they come across a group of traveling men. These men are discussing rumors of a king looking to marry off his daughter. Dean doesn’t particularly care, so he ignores them for the most part. Except as they get closer to the next town, they find more and more men discussing the kingdom in question. By the time they reach the outskirts of town, Dean thinks there must be some problem with the princess if her father’s trying to pawn her off on strangers.

At the inn where they decide to stay for the night, the tales only get taller. Apparently the whole kingdom is up for grabs, to just anybody. While earning some extra coin at cards, Dean hears that the princess has set up some impossible tasks, many from which the adventurers never return. He’s sure they’re exaggerating, except most of the stories sound close enough to each other, he wonders if they should see what it’s all about. After winning a few hands of cards, Dean takes his winnings and leaves the table before they accuse him of cheating.

Cas is up in their room, reading. Dean thinks he understands how Cas and Sam became friends, both of them always with their noses in books. When he tells Cas about what’s happening with the king and the princess, and the missing adventurers, the angel gets this odd look on his face before he tells Dean it’s up to him. Weird, usually Cas is full of all sorts of opinions.

“But this is our kind of thing, right?”

Looking up at him with a blank expression and slight frown, Cas asks, “What _is_ our ‘thing,’ Dean?”

Okay, the guy usually doesn’t get that blank look unless he’s upset over something, but hell if Dean can figure out what it is. “I dunno, you seem to like helping people, and there’s probably something freaky going on with the princess, and the missing adventurers.”

Dean flops down on the narrow bed on his side of the room. “Could be interesting, and there’s no reason we can’t take a look. It is just down the road.”

Cas doesn’t even look up from his book as he gives a terse nod. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

When they depart the next morning, it’s with a group of other men also heading toward the castle, for varied reasons including greed, curiosity, sense of adventure, or hubris. Whatever their reasons, the group of men band together and keep each other company on the road to the castle.

Even though Dean’s used to Cas being a little quiet and withdrawn, he’s practically a walking statue for all the attention he’s paying Dean. Some of Dean’s more off-color jokes that tend to annoy the angel don’t even get a reaction. He’s sure that Cas is now only putting up with him because he has to.

They’re a couple hours into their journey east when the castle comes into view. With golden walls and tall spires, it sits on a hill with a gentle slope to the south, and a harsher dropoff to the north. A village sits at the edge of the southern slope, just at the end of a wide path that leads up to the castle. It seems cheerful enough with the whitewashed walls and tiled roofs. As the others pick up speed toward the destination, Dean slows down and grabs Cas’ arm.

“Hey, listen. I know we’ve got our issues, but we can work through this together, right?”

Cas’ impassive stare flickers to surprise briefly. “Of course, Dean. My apologies if I’ve made you feel otherwise.”

Yeah, right. There’s no way the damn angel doesn’t know exactly how his attitude comes across, all aloof and nose up in the air. Dean searches Cas’ eyes for a moment before giving up with a sigh. “Whatever. We just need to figure out what’s going on.”

Cas gives him an odd look, and turns to continue on his way towards the village. When they make it into the village proper, there’s almost a festival air surrounding the place. The streets are crowded with adventurers of all types. Dean can see noblemen in their finery, big burly warrior types, even some young, wiry men that look just barely old enough to be out on their own. Just what kind of stories have been spread about this kingdom?

They discover that the inns are full, and if they want a place to rest their heads, they should check the tents at the outskirts of the village. Well, it’s better than sleeping out in the open, Dean supposes. After they secure a place to sleep, the task of getting something to eat involves waiting in line for a trencher of stew. No ale for Dean today, the line for that is even longer.

Dean finds a stump to sit upon, and Cas brings him a mug of water. As soon as he takes a sip, he knows Cas has done his blood-thing, allowing them to control their reactions to Dean’s need for Cas’ blood. Every time Cas does this, Dean feels a pang of disappointment, but the angel doesn’t want him that way, and it’s better that he doesn’t ruin Cas anymore than he already has. With a sigh, Dean digs into his food.

After eating, they split up and explore the village. Guards at the head of the road leading to the castle point Dean to a messageboard with a list of rules for whatever kind of event is going on. The first page of rules outlines a “Knight’s Run,” and it seems like some kind of obstacle course combined with a wrestling match. Winners are given the opportunity to train and possibly join the knight-guard.

The second page lists the rules for the princess’ hand, and wow, it’s surprisingly simple. They first have to make it through the Knight’s Run, then complete some tasks set by the royal household. Of course, there are some fine-print rules that outline punishments for cheating, etc.

Unless one of the tasks involves fighting a deadly basilisk, Dean’s beginning to think this isn’t their kind of thing after all. The two different objectives does explain the difference in types of people here for the event. Of course, the obstacle course looks fun, so he might stick around for that. You don’t have to actually _accept_ a place with the guard, after all.

While chatting up one of the villagers, Dean discovers that this is the second time they’ve held the challenge, and that it started when the princess refused to marry. She had devised the obstacle course, and while nobody passed the challenges after that, the few men who decided to stay anyway, made excellent guardsmen. Thus, this year it has been divided into two categories.

Dean’s impressed. Even if someone ends up marrying the princess, they can continue to hold the challenge as a way to draw commerce and fresh blood to the area. Sounds better than jousting and sword fighting, anyway. If he’s going to face someone with a sword, they better end up on the end of it when he’s done.

Cas finds him later, a couple slips of paper in his hand. “It appears there is some kind of tournament being held. If we wish to investigate further, we’ll need to enter.”

“Oh, Cas, I thought you’d never ask.” Dean smiles and takes one of the slips, and has Cas lead him to the registration table.

When it’s their turn, (seriously, what is it with the LINES everywhere?) a young woman takes Dean’s slip and asks, “From whence do you hail?”

From… what? He can’t say Hell… Shit, he didn’t realize they were going to ask questions. “Uhh,” Where was his family from? Sam would know. Oh!

“Winchester. I’m from, uh, Winchester.”

The young woman smiles, and writes something down. “Thank you, Dean of Winchester. And your servant’s name?”

Huh? Dean turns to see Cas standing slightly behind him instead of abreast like everyone else is. Just like a valet. Okay, he can do this.

“This is Cas, er… Castiel.”

The young woman hands Dean a couple strips of cloth with a number painted on it. “This is your participant number, please attach it to your sleeve during the run. Your servant will wear the same number to denote he is assisting you.” She checks her notes before turning to the next man in line. “Please make sure you understand the rules board before participating tomorrow. Also, there will be a personal missive from the king this evening.”

“Thanks.”

Dean turns away from the table, a bit dazed. Stopping in the middle of the street, Dean looks at the cloths in his hands. Looking up, he sees Cas standing with that same stance as he did at the table, just like a servant attending his master.

“Shit, I’m sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking. If you like, we’ll go back and—”

“No, that’s fine, Dean.” Cas pulls one of the strips of fabric from Dean’s grip. “I don’t know where I would have claimed to hail, and this way, I can openly assist you.”

“Still, I want you to know I don’t think of you as…” Dean looks down at his shoes. “As a servant.”

Cas places a hand on his forearm and gives a gentle squeeze. When Dean looks up, he can see the tension below Cas’ temples that denotes an almost-smile. “I know, and thank you.”

And then there go the eye crinkles, just the slightest shift around the eyes, a faint twitch of Cas’ mouth. Which, of course, Dean should stop staring at. Wetting his lips, Dean pulls away from the warmth of Cas’ hand, and turns toward the temporary housing tents.

“Ready to see where we’ll be staying?”

Hanging out in the tents is a good way to catch up on gossip, and snag a few sips of whatever kind of alcohol the other men carried with them. Good idea, Dean should have thought of that. Most of the flasks contain some form of rotgut, but it’s better than nothing, or standing in line for possibly watered-down ale.

And he hears some more tall tales of men who tried their luck last year, horrific mentions of dismemberment, or being eaten alive by dragons. He’s almost sure at this point that the stories that made it seem like monsters attacking the participants are just rumors, something to keep each other entertained around the fire. But Cas is off doing whatever it is the angel does, and Dean’s in with good company as someone rigs up a way to have a friendly card game in between the narrow cots inside the tent.

Since it’s early summer the sun sets relatively late, and just as the sun dips toward the horizon, setting the visible walls of the nearby castle ablaze with golden light, a group of horses and a carriage can be seen heading from the castle towards the village. By the time the carriage arrives, surrounded by knights on horseback, a platform has been set up near the rules messageboard.

Once the carriage comes to a full stop, a liveryman opens the door and out steps a short, portly man with colorful velvet clothing, his crown not much more than a golden brim to his puffy hat, a bright white feather plume arching over it. With kind eyes and a graying beard, he holds out his hands, palms up, to the crowd.

A crier appears at the edge of the platform and calls, “All hail King Bradbury!”

The crowd erupts into cheers, and the king waits for them to settle, hands on his hips. “Greetings, citizens of Middleton and adventurous guests! It’s wonderful to see so many competing in this year’s Knight’s Run! However, we don’t have enough Guard spots for everyone, so we will be selecting from the top ten this year.”

A low murmur ripples through the crowd.

“And then there are the participants in the competition for my daughter’s hand!”

Another, less raucous cheer erupts through the crowd, and the king holds out his hands for silence. “Remember, there can only be one winner!” Scattered laughter is his response. “And now, let me introduce my daughter, Princess Charlene!”

The king turns and holds out his hand to the person still inside the carriage. A slim hand grasps his, and a young woman with flaming red hair emerges from the carriage, a simple gold circlet upon her brow. Her gown is a sheath of blue silk with pink trimmings. When she stands to her full height, which is taller than her father, her back is straight, and her jaw is set in a firm line. Dean doesn’t think she wants to do this, and if there’s anything weird going on, she’s probably the cause of it.

Dean watches as the princess turns a tight smile to the cheering crowd. She steps forward, raises a hand, and all fall silent.

“I hope the majority are here for the Knight’s Run and not for the chance to marry me.” There’s some uncomfortable chuckling. “But those of you who are up to that challenge, don’t think you can get away with trying to cheat again! No more phoenix eggs. This year is an entirely new level.”

Enthusiastic swearing attracts Dean’s attention, and there’s an ornately clothed prince stomping off in a rage. Looks like someone came prepared this year.The princess raises her voice at the retreating figure.

“Oh, Prince Sendhil! If you brought any more ostrich eggs, we’ll gladly purchase them. They make delicious omelets!”

That comment receives hearty laughter throughout the crowd. “And with that being said,” the princess is smiling in earnest now, “Everyone get a good night’s sleep, because tomorrow will not be easy. Good night, and good luck!”

Villagers join in with the cheers again as the princess and king settle into their carriage. The surrounding knights lead it back up the road to the castle just as the last of the sun’s glow fades from the tip of the tallest spire. With the departure of royalty, the crowd begins to disperse. Cas comes over to Dean, brow furrowed.

“I don’t think there’s anything supernatural happening here, Dean.”

Dammit Cas, you really need to learn to lighten up. “Yeah? What makes you think that?”

Cas nods in the direction of the disgruntled prince. “Several people have mentioned the story of the prince who tried to pass an ostrich egg as one of a phoenix. He had it hand-painted. But when he brought the egg to the princess, she insisted it hatch first.”

Dean feels his mouth pull into a smile. “I feel there’s more to this story.”

“The kingdom now has an ostrich.”

At that, Dean throws his head back, laughter bursting from his throat loud enough to make others look. “That’s just great! Looks like the princess knows what she’s doing.” with one last chuckle, but grin still in place, Dean continues. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

Cas frowns. “Don’t you think there would be more substantial reports other than the distorted stories we’ve heard from travelers?”

“Aww, c’mon. This run thing sounds fun at least. Might as well stay for that, right?”

Cas sighs in defeat. “If you wish, we can participate tomorrow.”

Nodding, Dean pats Cas on the back. “Good man. Now, let’s go settle in.”

If his hand lingers a little longer than normal, Dean passes it off as steering the angel in the right direction.

* * *

The next morning, after a simple breakfast of bread and cheese, the competitors meet at the bottom of the hill leading to the castle. Whoever isn’t in the village to ensure it stays running during the event are lined along the road as spectators. Knights dressed in their uniform tabards block the entrance, and Dean can see where the road is blocked off about halfway up the hill, leading into the forest. An officiant reads the rules out loud. making sure everyone understands them.

Each competitor must complete every obstacle, in order. Upon completion, they will receive a color-coded ribbon. Servants are not allowed to substitute their masters for any event, but may assist them. They are to follow the marked trails and follow instructions at each obstacle. The finish line is at the mouth of the courtyard at the castle proper. Also, due to the large number of competitors, they will be released in groups of ten.

Dean’s excited, and can’t wait to see what kinds of challenges await him. He’s heard stories of last year’s obstacles, but these are sure to be even better. He and Cas are in the third group of ten, and they watch the first group sprint up the road. They make it to the blockade and disappear into the forest. The second group is released, and Dean is so ready for this. On his left is a very young man with straight black hair and almond-shaped eyes. The kid seems nervous.

“First one, kid?”

“Huh?” The kid blinks up at him. “Oh, yes. I’m participating regardless of if I get a guard position. If I do well, perhaps Mother won’t send me off to study with the monks.”

Dean nods. “I can understand that, my kid brother’s doing the monk thing, too.” He holds out a hand. “Name’s Dean.”

The kid stares at his hand a moment before grasping and shaking it. “Kevin.”

Just then, they hear a piercing whistle that means it’s their turn to head up the hill. Giving Kevin a winning grin, Dean sticks to a slow run up the hill. He has no idea how much they’re going to be put through, but it’s best to pace himself.

As they turn off into the woods, Dean sees a roped off trail. most of their group are far ahead, and he knows if the trials are strenuous, they’re just going to wear themselves out quickly. Kevin’s near the back of the group, but Dean recognizes the easy stride of someone who’s still pacing himself. Kid’s smart.

They arrive at their first task, at an open patch of ground. They’re handed shovels, and instructed to dig a circular hole of a set diameter and depth. It’s not a very large hole, and it takes Dean no time at all. Then, he’s told to fill it in again. It’s only when the official deems his hole sufficiently filled and packed down that he’s given his first ribbon. It takes Cas a bit longer to fill his hole, and they’re off again through the woods.

Balancing across beams, swinging across a pond and climbing rough walls, they wind their way around to the north face of the castle’s hill.

From here, the trees thin, and Dean can see the terraced landscape that makes up the much steeper incline on this side. There’s another pond, and there’s a rope separating it in half, floating wooden platforms stretching across one side. They’re instructed to go to the other side, then swim back before running across the wooden platforms. Dean wasn’t planning on getting wet, but other than the discomfort of his clothing clinging to him, and boots squelching, it’s not a problem.

Cas grumbles like a wet cat as they make their way to the next section, which is an orchard packed with ripe cherry trees. They’re handed large baskets and are told to pick a basket full of unbruised fruit. Oh, now this is smart. Have the competitors pick the fruit as the servants stand around and make sure they’re doing it right. The whole orchard will be picked clean by the end of the competition. It takes Dean a while to pick without smooshing, and he ends up eating his mistakes. Cas finishes early with a perfect basket of fruit, not one to sample the pickings.

Up they climb, each terrace a new challenge. One involves carrying a log from one end to the other, then chopping it into equal lengths for firewood. After that one, they must climb the stone terrace wall to the next section, and many have to rest after using up so much arm strength.

As Dean makes it over the rock wall, he can see the ground floor of the castle in sight. They’re almost done! He rounds a corner to see servants on platforms, pouring jugs of water over the heads of competitors as they pass by. He’s confused until he sees the challenge just past.

Great bags of flour are being swung across the path, and those that get hit get a billowing cloud of flour that sticks to them. Most are covered in white by the exit. Waiting in line, Dean sees Cas make his way through. The angel dodges and swerves, avoiding every single bag. His movements are graceful and efficient, and Dean’s reminded that Cas is a warrior. That warrior emerges wet but clean.

Determined to not be shown up, Dean rushes forward after his dousing. He’s doing great until he sees Cas waiting for him at the end, arms crossed, hair wet and sticking up in every direction. That’s when a sack smacks Dean in the face, spinning him straight into the path of the next sack that whacks him in the back. Coughing through the billowing powder, Dean manages to only get grazed by another sack before he finishes the obstacle.

A giggling servant hands him the last ribbon, and Cas hands him a towel. After wiping off his face, Dean looks down. He’s a little dusted, but he thinks he made out okay. When he says so, Cas raises an eyebrow and makes a show of looking at Dean’s back. Twisting to look at his own rear, Dean can see that he’s entirely coated in white all the way down the back of his trousers.

“My shirt, too?” he asks.

Cas nods and reaches for the back of Dean’s hair, and his fingers come back pasty. That’ll be fun to wash out later. They turn together to head toward the entrance of the courtyard, where servants have been handing out beverages and small snacks like dried meat and chewy sweets. There are also medics helping those who managed to finish with injuries.

Most of the competitors are spattered with flour, and only a few have come away mostly unscathed. Except others keep coming up to those and giving them crushing hugs, or backing up against them like bears scratching their backs on tree trunks. While Dean finds a warm stone wall to lean against, he notices there are actually a few women among the competitors, just as pasty as the rest. After a mental review of the rules, there’s nothing barring women to enter the run.

By the time the last batch of competitors makes their way into the courtyard, long shadows from the encircling walls and spires cool the area. Considering he can feel the flour paste dry to his clothes, Dean’s glad for some relief from the sun. He looks at the freckled backs of his hands, and thinks about how just a couple of months ago, he would have been completely sunburned by now.

Glancing to the side, Dean peeks at Cas, hair messy, skin the same golden tan as he’d first seen it. Except for a few streaks, he’s managed to escape most of the guys trying to make everyone the same shade of pasty white. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes off a flaking streak along Cas’ brow. Some bits land in his eyelashes, and Cas’ eyes flutter closed.

“Hold still,” Dean commands, as he lightly blows away the flour flecks. “That’s better.”

Cas’ eyes open, and Dean’s struck by the depths of the blue, the reflected golden yellow of the Castle’s walls turning them a deep, indescribable shade. They’re standing close, facing each other. Dean told himself he was going to avoid situations like this, but right now, he’s drawn by those beautiful eyes. Time seems suspended, until a blowing horn jolts them back to reality.

There’s a crier standing at a low balcony, a scroll held out before him. “Those of you whose names are called, please step forward.”

Five names are called, among them the ostrich-egg prince, whose clothes are too clean for him to not have somehow brought a spare set. After they’ve assembled, the princess appears from behind a curtain, dressed today in a red and green sheath, her blazing hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. The crowd erupts into cheers, and she holds her hands up for silence.

“The five of you have been hereby disqualified from the competition.”

A couple of the men who stepped forward shout in indignation, and the ostrich-egg prince is restrained by guards as he flings curses at the princess.

“Prince Sendhil, you’ve already been warned of cheating. Stealing other’s ribbons as your own will not be tolerated, and I don’t like what you just called me. You are henceforth banned from the castle, and you shall be escorted to the kingdom’s borders at the guard’s earliest convenience.”

While the prince is bodily removed from the courtyard, another of the five steps forward. He’s tall, with slicked back hair and a slimy looking smile. “Surely there’s been some mistake, your Highness.”

The princess gives him a displeased smile of her own. “Richard the Roman, you and your servants were observed trading places during the run, sharing the ribbons. As you did not complete the whole course by yourself, your competition ends here, as well as the servants who helped you.”

She stands straight, and gives him the perfect condescending look. “While you are not yet banned from the castle, I suggest you not push your luck. Please do not appear at any of my kingdom’s contests in the future.”

Facing the other three, she says, “I assume the rest of you do not wish to have me explain the reasons for your disbandment as well. Please exit the courtyard, turn in your ribbons, and return to Middleton.”

Dean’s impressed. The princess really has a grip on how to handle things. Several servants with baskets appear at her sides, and they pass the baskets down to others waiting below the balcony.

“You have one more challenge before evening sets,” the princess calls out. “You shall select a ribbon from the basket. As soon as they’ve all been handed out, I will give your instructions.”

Dean and Cas wait as the baskets are passed around, and there both are yellow and blue ribbons in the basket. Dean and Cas both choose blue. As soon as the basket handlers finish, they’re told to exchange ribbons with a neighbor. Dean and Cas exchange theirs, and Dean smirks.

From her low balcony, the princess says, “Without killing or seriously maiming your opponent, you are to find someone with the opposite ribbon color and subdue them, taking their ribbon. I repeat, no killing or serious injury.” Already, there are those in the crowd scoping their potential partner.

“The winners shall remain and be shown rooms where you can wash and prepare for supper in the castle. Those defeated are to make their way back to Middleton. Anyone caught breaking the rules or being unnecessarily cruel shall also be dismissed.”

The princess steps back toward the curtain. “I’ll meet the winners and break bread soon.” With that, she slips behind the curtain.

For a moment, everyone holds still, unsure when they are to begin. But then one burly man bowls another over, and it’s on. Chaos reigns as men grapple with each other, many attempting at an easy ribbon grab. Dean easily fends off several before he snags the ribbon from an opponent he has in a chokehold. As soon as he has the yellow ribbon, he releases the man, and makes his way to the edge of the crowd.

There are a couple of ribbonless fools who try to swipe his, but he wasn’t raised in Hell to be easily defeated by regular men. Guards interspersed among the crowd direct those who have lost from the courtyard, and soon the size of the group has been reduced to less than half. Several have to be carried off on stretchers.

After the wounded have been carried off, huge arched doors open up in the west wall, and those remaining are led in. They’re assigned rooms, and are sent off to clean up before supper with the royal family. Since they registered Cas as Dean’s servant, they end up sharing a room. Dean’s worried about the tight space until he sees that their room is possibly larger than the hut they shared. Cas carries both their bags, and he sets them down in front of a small table.

While Cas finds a fresh change of clothes, Dean explores the room. It’s rectangular, with the door and a large curtained window on either of the short sides. Near the door, there are some chairs and the small table, and the two beds sit along both the long sides.  There’s a desk with a pitcher and a bowl at the window, and Dean looks out the glass to see the lights of the village below. They’ve got the southeast view, and the sun is once again beginning to set. Everything is cast into a golden glow as the sun’s rays are thrown across the landscape.


	8. Chapter 8

While Dean looks out the window, Castiel sets out a clean set of clothes for each of them. Even though he and Dean have been traveling as common men, he still wishes they had something other than the coarse farmer’s shirts and sturdy brown trousers to wear. Dining with others of status is an honor for both humans and angels, and a warrior would never show up for a meeting with one of the archangels dressed in what they wear under their common clothes. With a sigh, he lays out the feather Anael gave him, glad at least for something different. He’d taken it off for the contest. Perhaps Dean can wear some of his unsold jewelry.

There’s a knock at the door, and Castiel answers it, having fallen easily into the role of servant. A wide, squat bucket is rolled in, and he’s handed two buckets full of hot water. Someone else hands him a couple of fluffy towels and a floral sachet. It is all done within minutes, and the servants are gone as quickly as they arrived. Castiel turns from the door to see Dean inspecting the tub with an impressed expression.

“They really know how to treat visitors, huh?” Dean says before picking up the sachet. He gives it a sniff before tossing it into one of the buckets. As the steam takes on the delicate notes of lavender, something citrusy, and… he thinks cinnamon, Castiel now understands the purpose. Of course Dean, as a prince, even of Hell, would understand the use.

Dean starts pulling off his stiff shirt, and Castiel goes to help. They struggle to remove the clothing, and once free of it, Dean jokes that it could probably sit up by itself. Castiel remains doubtful, but keeps his opinion to himself. It is just now that he realizes there will be a problem. Dean will have to remove all his clothing in order to bathe. And Castiel knows Dean usually prefers privacy. He quickly sets the two buckets near the large tub, sets the towels along the edge, and goes to the table where he turns a chair to face away.

“I’ve set out your clothes. Feel free to take your time, and let me know when I may clean up as well.” With that, he sits in the chair, politely facing away.

He hears Dean say “Thanks, Cas,” and the sound of Dean pulling off his trousers. Castiel makes himself think of battle tactics, herbal lore he’d been studying with Sam, and sorts through his vast knowledge of creatures. Anything to tune out the sounds of Dean bathing. In the small room, the splashing sounds of water being ladled from one of the buckets and poured over Dean’s skin.

What he can’t ignore are the sounds of frustration and annoyance as Dean hisses and grumbles about his hair. “Is there a problem Dean?” Please say no, he thinks, while another part of him almost hopes for a yes.

“Damn flour dried in my hair, and now it’s all tangled up and clumpy.” There are some more clattering sounds, then, “Shit!”

The rooms descends into awkward silence, except for the faint sounds of Dean’s awkward shuffling. “Cas?” Dean’s voice sounds defeated. “I think I need you to pour some water over my head.”

Castiel takes a steadying breath before turning to face Dean. He lets it out again when he realizes Dean’s still in his white cotton underwear, leaning over the wide bucket, both hands in the now pasty mess of hair at the back of his head. Rivulets of floured water streak his forearms, face, and neck. Dean glances at him before looking away, cheeks flushed pink.

“Yeah, okay. so I didn’t think it was this bad. Just use the ladle until I can get my hands free again.”

Bringing a chair next to the bucket and instructing Dean to sit, Castiel places his hand on Dean’s shoulder and leans him forward. He pours a ladle full of water over where Dean’s fingers are in his hair, watching them scrub, flour paste running into the bucket. He continues this slowly, and helps by working the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck.

Soon Castiel is stroking his fingers through the wet locks, Dean’s elbows propped on his knees as he allows the angel who can actually see the back of his head take care of the mess. A few appreciative noises erupt from Dean as Castiel massages his scalp with his fingertips. Noticing a stubborn streak on the skin behind Dean’s ear, Castiel slides his thumb there, and Dean lets out a shuddering breath.

“Uh, you about done there, buddy?” Dean’s voice is a little hoarse.

Castiel pulls his hand away as if burnt. He allowed himself to get too close. “I, yes. I believe so.”

“Get a ladleful from the other bucket, and I’ll finish up.”

He does, the scent from the sachet even stronger as it has continued to steep in the water. Dean pours the scented water over his head, and Castiel returns to his seat. He cannot banish the visions of Dean’s exposed back and shoulders from his mind, the constellations of freckles, even along the shells of his ears. Just for a moment he allows himself to imagine running his hands along the muscles of Dean’s back, warm water cascading down his skin, Castiel washing away the tension of the day as the aroma of the water mingles with Dean’s unique musky scent.

“Hey, uh…” Dean’s voice pierces through Castiel’s fantasy.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Don’t… turn around or anything, but could you… go get me another towel? Maybe some more water?” Dean’s voice is strained as he makes the request.

Yes, that sounds like a good idea, he can go fetch water and a towel for Dean, clear his own head. “Of course, I shall return shortly.”

“Don’t rush, just… you know, we don’t want to be the asshole guests, or whatever.”

Ignoring the odd stress in Dean’s voice, Castiel makes his way out the door, keeping his back turned to the wash buckets. Once he has the closed door at his back in the hallway, Castiel takes a deep breath before going in search of someone who can provide towels and more water. While he makes his way down the hall, Castiel thinks about the strange emotions Dean draws from him.

At first, he’d thought it was a symptom of Dean being so close when taking his blood, but the attraction persists, even after switching to a less personal method. While considering the possibility of some sort of bond forming between them, Castiel nearly walks right past a servant waiting at the hall entrance. As soon as he voices his request, he’s led to a nearby room where he gathers an extra towel and bucket of water. The bucket an awkward weight, Castiel is slower on the trip back to their shared room.

At the door, Castiel is unsure how to proceed. He knocks, and listens for a response inside. There is some shuffling, something falls over, and Dean swears. “Hold on,” Dean calls out, so Castiel waits, bucket in hand, at the door.

Dean opens the door, fresh trousers on, towel over his shoulders, hair still damp. Castiel takes in the flushed chest and face, and Dean refuses to look at him as he comes inside and sets down the clean water.

“So… turns out I didn’t need the extra, sorry.” Keeping his face turned away, Dean goes over to where a clean shirt has been laid out, and pulls it on over his head. “I’m just… going to go look around, feel free to use up the rest of the water.”

In his strange avoidance of looking at Castiel, Dean almost trips over his own discarded clothing. He grabs his boots and rushes for the door. “I’ll see you in the dining hall, bye.” The door slams behind him.

How odd. Was Dean embarrassed about not needing the extra water after requesting it? Castiel ponders Dean’s strange behavior as he strips himself down to wash. There’s one good thing about Dean leaving. Castiel won’t need to practice modesty for his bath.

By the time he’s dried and dressed, Castiel considers requesting the recipe for the herbal bath mixture. He feels refreshed, his hair is soft, and there is a slight scent that clings to his skin. Perhaps Dean would prefer bathing like that more often. Thinking of the possible medicinal benefits of preparing different herbal bath sachets, Castiel makes his way to the dining hall.

Ever since Dean had requested Castiel eat around others, he has learned to appreciate the taste and texture of food. Here, in this wide open hall, huge wooden beams crossing the ceiling and supporting chandeliers and lamps, long tables arranged to accommodate the group of people in attendance, there are many types of food to choose from. He can see crispy duck, roasted pig, and enormous chunks of cow. There is a selection of different cheeses, and bowls full of vegetables, beans, and fruit. He recognizes the cherries they helped pick, as well as blackberries, plums, and citrus.

Unaccustomed to seeing this much food in one place, Castiel stops to stare until Dean catches his attention with a waving hand. Dean’s seated next to a young man with straight black hair and Asian features. This is Kevin, if he remembers correctly.

“Hey, Cas! Kevin made it!” Dean claps Kevin’s shoulder, causing the young man to sway in his seat.

“You probably didn’t recognize me, I was one of those covered head to toe in flour.” Kevin lowers his head. “I really thought I was going to make it, but those bags are heavier than they look.”

Dean chuckles. “Kid here got knocked down on his first try, and had to go again.”

“But you obviously did well in the last challenge.” Castiel sits in the chair Dean has pulled out for him on his left side, Kevin on Dean’s right.

“Yeah.” Kevin puffs his chest out with pride. “After winning a ribbon early, I was able to hide them both until it was over and time to escort the losers.” He grins. “One of the judges almost didn’t believe I had both ribbons when I showed him.”

Dean laughs, and Castiel watches the relaxed set of his shoulders, the crinkle of his eyes, his exposed teeth. Whatever had made Dean so awkward during bathing has been completely eliminated in the man before him. Confused, Castiel reaches for a cup at his place setting, and takes a sip. It’s strong wine, and while he swallows the mouthful, he wonders how much Dean has had to drink. Dean’s pouring himself another cup, and Castiel knows that drinking tends to relax him.

It’s not long before the dining hall is filled with voices, people milling about, comfortable in their seats, sampling the foods around them. Castle servants pass by with trays, and Dean tastes nearly everything that comes his way, trying some more than once. They’re about halfway through the meal when horns sound, and everyone stands as the king appears at the special, raised table at one end that had remained empty until now. Knights file in, taking up seats at either side, and then the princess enters, taking the place next to her father.

There’s a pause as the king looks over the group before him. “We have a pretty good crowd assembled here today. Before you continue your meals, we will announce the top ten competitors from the Knight’s Run.”

He’s handed a scroll, and he reads off the names on the list. Dean and Castiel are both on it, and Kevin looks nervous until his name is read, the tenth and last one. “Will everyone but the ten whose names I called, please sit.”

There’s shuffling as everyone else sits down. “I want to let everyone know that you should be proud of your accomplishments here today. But, while you were competing, my servants were taking notes of your activities, looking for certain qualities. From those observations, we have selected the ten before you. Out of these ten, we shall select our next guard recruits.”

The king looks at each of them. “However, I now need to know which of you wish to continue to the next level for a chance at my daughter’s hand. Those of you who are content as guard recruits, please sit.”

Kevin immediately seats himself, as well as a woman who made the top ten. A few others eye each other before sitting as well. Castiel is halfway to his seat when he realizes Dean is still standing. Wait, why would he… But they’d agreed to stop after the competition. Standing back up, Castiel leans in to whisper to Dean.

“What are you doing?”

Dean’s eyes widen in emphasis as he whispers back, “I still want to see if there’s something weird going on. Just relax.”

“But you said—”

“I’ve got this, Cas,” Dean hisses through clenched teeth.

Castiel realizes a large number of the crowd are staring at them, and debates sitting down. He’s about halfway to his seat again when the king says, “Registered servants of competitors must also continue to compete.”

With a sigh, he stands back up. What is Dean thinking? Does he actually want to win this? But why? Is this a secret plan to expand Hell’s base of operations to Earth? Everything Castiel has seen of Dean thus far tells him that Dean wouldn’t do this as some form of powerplay. _He thinks_.

The king announces, “Instructions for tomorrow’s events, both for recruits and continuing competitors, will be announced at breakfast. Everyone, enjoy your meal, and congratulations on making it this far.” With that, he and the princess take their seats, and the dining around them resumes.

* * *

As the evening grows late, Castiel entertains himself by observing the increasingly intoxicated crowd. Poor Kevin had fallen asleep at his place setting about an hour ago, and Dean was kind enough to have someone take him to his room. Castiel also notices he isn’t the only observant one. While the princess continues to drink from her cup all evening, she has yet to show any signs of succumbing to the effects of alcohol. Castiel suspects she isn’t drinking any, and with purpose.

More than once, he catches the princess scrutinizing Dean carefully. Perhaps she sees Dean as a worthy partner? A surprising twinge in his chest makes Castiel sit back and blink. What if Dean actually wins, and marries the princess? Will he abdicate the throne of Hell to Abaddon and accept his exile without contest in exchange for his human life? That… isn’t something he had considered, and it sits heavily in Castiel’s stomach.

Dean is across the room, having a good time with a group, laughing and singing loudly out of tune. It certainly seems like Dean doesn’t want to return to Hell. But if Abaddon takes the throne, that will be disastrous. Suddenly the room feels much smaller, and Castiel feels a strong compulsion to leave, to find open space.

He discreetly makes his way out the door and down the hall to the courtyard. Out in the mostly open space, Castiel takes a deep breath of the night air. There are lanterns casting a warm glow and he finds a bench to sit down. Perhaps now is the time to contact Anael and discuss the problem at hand. But if he calls her to his location, they’ll need privacy. Standing up, he heads toward the courtyard’s entrance, where he’s stopped by a contingent of guards.

“If you leave the grounds tonight, you will not be allowed entrance again until morning.”

Oh. Castiel considers leaving anyway, but he’s concerned about Dean’s reaction if he’s not in their room without some sort of note. With a nod to the guards, Castiel turns and heads back inside. He’ll just leave a note for Dean, then go find a place to contact Anael.

Halfway to their room, a petite woman with long curls and olive skin steps out of an alcove and alongside him. Immediately on guard, Castiel carefully examines her. She isn’t human. Surprised to see a fairy in this realm and completely visible, Castiel tenses.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asks.

She stops, the skirt of her pale gown swishing along the floor. Turning to him, she smiles. “You’re not human, are you?”

Castiel’s blade slips into his hand, but she reaches out, touching his wrist. Immediately, he’s frozen in place. “There’s no need for that,” she says with a smile. “Come with me.”

Unable to do anything else, Castiel follows, her hand still on his wrist, as he’s led up a set of narrow, winding stairs. It is strange to find a creature to have this much control over an angel. Of course, if Castiel chose, he could use his full power, but he doesn’t appear to be in any immediate danger so he waits. The stairs end at a landing on top of a tower, and it’s one of the tallest. There’s a slight breeze, and Castiel can see so much from here: the village below, the castle, and the expanse of stars above. It takes him a moment to realize his hand has been released, and he’s allowed to move freely again.

The strange woman leans back against one of the roof’s support pillars, arms crossed. She appears completely relaxed as she examines Castiel, a neutral expression on her face. Still wary but fairly certain he’s safe, Castiel puts away his blade, but stays alert. They watch each other until the woman sighs and turns to face the night sky.

“I still don’t know who you are or what you want,” Castiel says as he steps up to the low wall, more than an arm’s length between them.

She turns her head to look at him. “Your presence has been requested for a private conversation, and this is a place few come.”

They stand there staring at each other a moment longer. Turning toward the tower’s door, the woman looks over her shoulder. “I am Gilda. Someone will be with you shortly.” And with that, she goes to the entrance and closes the door behind.

Still not sensing any ill intent, Castiel relaxes his shoulders and waits for someone to come. Hopefully whoever that is will explain what’s going on. He turns his face into the breeze and closes his eyes. It’s been so long since he’s been able to fly, and for a brief moment, Castiel wonders if he ever will. But that’s a silly notion. Yet the thought nags at him until he hears someone coming up the stairs.

Princess Charlene comes through the door, with no guard in sight. Surprised, it takes Castiel a moment to remember he’s supposed to bow before royalty. As soon as he’s bent over, the princess swishes past him.

“Oh, stop that. I won’t say anything about lack of decorum if you don’t.”

This is a most unexpected turn of events. When he faces her again, she’s sitting on the wall’s ledge, her skirt bunched up around her knees, revealing boots and leggings underneath.

“Your highness, I don’t think that wall is safe—”

“Pssh,” She waves her hand at him. “First of all, call me Charlie.” The heels of her boots tap against stone. “Second of all, I’ve been coming up here since I was knee high to a knight. I’m only going to fall off if you push me.”

Castiel is taken aback by her words and behavior, and she laughs. “Yeah, not the typical princess.” She smirks. “D’you think if Dean saw me like this he’d drop out of the competition tomorrow?”

He’s fairly sure that Dean wouldn’t care if a woman dressed or acted as Charlie does. But the thought of tomorrow settles on him, and his earlier thoughts of what would happen if Dean abdicates to Abaddon resurface. Charlie must be very good at reading expressions, because she tilts her head and smiles at him softly.

“You really care for Dean, don’t you.”

A sad smile of his own curls Castiel’s mouth, and he nods, coming to stand next to Charlie and staring out into the night. She leans over and nudges his shoulder with hers, and she winks.

“Don’t worry, nobody can pass the final challenge anyway.”

This strange woman and the fairy in her employ are exasperating. “Why did you wish to speak with me?”

Charlie slides off the wall and turns to rest her arms where she’d been sitting. “Did you know I ran into Dean before supper?”

No, he didn’t know that, and says so. Charlie tells of how she’d gone to the kitchens for a snack and found Dean trying to charm one of the cooks into making him a cherry pie. He had almost succeeded until Charlie had thrown a roll at his head and told him to stop harassing the staff. Without missing a beat, he turned to her and asked if she would tell the cook to make a cherry pie for him.

Castiel huffs a small laugh because he can picture the scenario. Charlie continues, telling him how they’d grabbed some apple turnovers and had gone to the garden, where Gilda was tending to the herbs there. That prompted Dean to talk about his brother, but when pressed about his home, he’d gone solemnly silent.

“That’s when I asked him why he was competing. Do you know what he told me?”

Castiel holds his breath, waiting for her to continue.

“He said it looked like fun, and even if he won he would just say he didn’t want the crown,” she says with a laugh.

Castiel lets out a whoosh of air. Relief fills him at her words, and she studies his face closely.

“We talked about some other things, but… I don’t think I want to tell you yet,” she teases.

He’s considering asking her about the stories of missing competitors when she speaks again.

“Gilda says you’re not human.”

Castiel nods. “And neither is she.”

Charlie’s face softens. “My mother had many friends within a fairy kingdom. She told me fantastic stories when I was a small girl. She said when I got older, we’d go visit together, and I was so excited.” Her expression turns sad. “But a war broke out in their kingdom, and the king fell. The portal between realms needed to be sealed, and Mother was one of the people who helped. She wanted to wait and see if any refugees could cross, to spare them. It cost her life.”

She closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. “They only managed to get Gilda across before an arrow struck my mother, and they were forced to close the portal. She never recovered.”

Castiel feels sympathy for Charlie, who suddenly looks so small and vulnerable. He places a hand on her shoulder, and she leans into it. There’s a sad smile that she shakes off before turning to face Castiel. “So, tell me about yourself.”

* * *

Castiel makes his way to the room he’s sharing with Dean. He and Charlie talked for a long time. Her questions had been difficult to avoid, even when he explained the fate of three realms depended on him keeping his mission secret. That only made her dig deeper. He had allowed her to guess, and those guesses had been surprisingly close to the truth. So he told a tale of half truths, constructing a far away kingdom from where Dean was in exile while he found a way to overcome the usurping ruler.

As for his own story, Castiel told her that after rescuing Dean he had been assigned as his guardian. Of course, he didn’t tell her he’d basically assigned that role himself. Thankfully, her knowledge of angels is limited to tales told by uninformed humans. He stressed the importance that his true identity and mission remain secret, and no, he couldn’t show her his wings. With a sigh, Charlie deemed his story incredibly romantic.

Castiel enters the room to find Dean snoring on one of the beds. Closing the door, he makes his way over to see Dean sprawled across the bed face down, boots still on and one leg dangling over the edge, on top of the blanket. He smiles, and gently turns Dean over, intending to remove his boots. With that done, he starts to pull away, but Dean reaches out and grabs his arm.

“What is it, Dean?” Castiel whispers.

But Dean still appears to be asleep, eyes closed, but with a pouty frown. He tugs on Castiel’s sleeve, a little grunt escaping with each tug. Curious, Castiel sits on the edge of the bed. Dean rolls over, and pulls Castiel's arm over him like the edge of a blanket. This… is new. Since Dean doesn’t seem willing to let go any time soon, Castiel makes himself comfortable on his side facing Dean’s back. With a satisfied sigh, Dean wiggles a little closer to Castiel before settling into a deeper sleep. Feeling Dean’s warmth pressed against him, his arm around the man protectively, Castiel closes his eyes, and imagines what it would be like to dream.

* * *

 

In a pre-waking haze, Dean feels warm, and comfortable, and… safe. As the Prince of Hell, it’s not something he can say he’s felt often. He might have felt this way as a small child, held by his mother. But ever since being taken to Hell, there has never been any kind of lasting feeling of pure contentment. If he could stay in this warm, heavy haze forever, he would. But reality begins to assert itself, and multiple things become apparent.

First, he really has to piss. His bladder aches, and if it wasn't for his morning wood, he’d probably have wet the bed.

Second, there’s an arm wrapped around him. Sure, he drank quite a bit last night, but he remembers going to bed _alone_. Memories filter in, and the disappointment of finding the room empty last night causes Dean to pause.

Cracking one eye open, he stares at the plastered wall, then down at the arm. Yeah, that’s Cas’ shirt. Why? Cas has never done anything like this before. Even when they were forced to share sleeping space, Cas would lie stiff and unmoving until dawn. Did something happen?

Mind awhirl with conflicting emotions and questions, Dean’s bladder insists he do something about it, and _soon_. Except he’s curled up on the inside edge, Cas a warm, inviting wall behind him. Is there a way of doing this without it being awkward? That’s when he remembers that angels don’t sleep. Fuck, it’s already awkward.

Cas must sense Dean’s wakefulness, because his forearm flexes before saying, “Good morning, Dean.”

Ohh, the deep, resonant sound of that voice, just behind his ear. It makes Dean shiver. Yeah, it’s not really helping the _awkward_ of it all.

“Hey, uh… I really need to get up, so if you could…”

“Oh, of course.” Cas’ arm lifts off, and the warmth behind Dean vanishes as the angel turns over and gets up.

Dammit, without Cas’ comforting weight, Dean’s bladder screams for release. He’s torn between just pissing in the chamberpot, or making a run for the garderobe down the hall. When he rolls over to see Cas perched serenely on the edge of his own bed, Dean decides to hit up the garderobe, take his time.

“I’ll, uhh, be right back, gotta go take care of business.” Slipping on his boots without lacing them, Dean dashes out the door and down the hall, making it into the room where he can relieve himself in private just in time.

After a quick washing up, they make their way down to the dining hall, together this time. The air of the room is much more subdued, many nursing hangovers from last night’s festivities. There is a selection of breads, cheeses, and fruit, as well as weak ale. Also being handed out is a spiced, sweetened gruel that the servants swear is a hangover cure. Dean likes it well enough, so even though he feels fine, he gulps it down anyway.

As the morning drags on and people recover, conversation picks up to a low buzzing noise. Dean is trying to avoid conversation with Cas right now, and is picking at a leftover roll crust when an official comes in and tells the contestants to please follow him. Dean, Cas, and three others are led to a cozy sitting room where the king and princess are already seated. They’re greeted, and each are handed a sealed scroll.

“You only have two more challenges. You shall be led to the areas where you are to complete your tasks.”

Dean gives Cas a nod, and he’s led by a guard to an empty single-room storehouse out on the edge of the castle proper. He unrolls the scroll, and it says he is to fill the room with a single item within a two hour period. If the room is not completely filled, he is disqualified from further competition. It takes him ten minutes to decide what he’s going to use, and he’s finished within a half hour.

The princess arrives, impressed at his speed, but looks warily at the smoke escaping the cracks around the store-house. “Are you trying to burn it down, Dean of Winchester?”

He grins at her. “No your highness, but you might want to step back before I open the door.”

When he throws the double doors open wide, a wall of smoke billows out, creating a mushroom-cloud above the building. Inside, there’s a low, smoky fire made of wet leaves and various debris set in the middle of the dirt floor. The princess smirks at him, and declares it a pass, and they open up the windows, put out the fire, and allow the storehouse to air out.

Dean arrives back in the sitting room to see Cas standing at a bookshelf, flipping through one of the books. How the hell did the angel get here first? “Let me guess, you filled the room with feathers or something?”

Cas blinks at him, and closes the book with a snap. “Of course not. I used light.”

“What?”

“I set up multiple candles around the storeroom, filling it with light.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks it’s kind of clever. “Isn’t that kind of cheating?”

Cas gives him a flat look. “The princess approved.”

Nodding, Dean makes his way to the other end of the room where there is a collection of expensive-looking crystal decanters. Popping the top off of one and taking a whiff, he’s pleased to find brandy. After a quick look to see if someone might not approve, Dean takes one of the matching glasses and pours in a generous measure.

Another half hour passes, and a man enters, a smug look on his face until he sees Dean and Cas are also there. He coughs, nods, and settles in a chair. Another hour passes in silence, and Dean is looking through a book on historical battles. His attention is drawn by the sound of the room’s door opening, and in walks the king, his daughter in tow. It seems they’ve been arguing, and neither are wearing a pleasant face.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather choose one of the young men here?”

“Father, you promised!”

“Yes, but these ridiculous quests—”

“They’re not ridiculous. Only a man suitable to take your place will be able to complete them.”

The king sighs, and turns to face the waiting men. “Congratulations to you three. My daughter shall now announce the final challenge.”

Princess Charlene looks at them with a smug look on her face. “You have one month to complete this one. You need to find and bring me a real, live, breathing, unharmed… unicorn.”

Cas nods, the other man throws his hands up in the air in defeat, and Dean says, “What?”

“You heard me. No substitutes, no fakes. Bring me an actual unicorn within one month, and you win.” She’s grinning, because she knows the game is rigged. Because unicorns don’t exist.

Cas is tugging on Dean’s sleeve, but he ignores it as he makes his way to go stand in front of the princess. “You’ve definitely got some skills, queenlet. You’ll make a great ruler, married or not.”

“Dean,” Cas’ gravelly voice call from behind.

“Just a sec,” he says over his shoulder. “Well, this was fun. If I’m in the area next year, I might stop by to see what you cook up next year.” She smiles at him, and he turns to face Cas.

“What? I was just telling her goodbye.”

Cas gives him a strange look. “So you’re finally quitting the contest?”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, of course. Unicorns aren’t real, so why bother?”

Cas blinks, and gets this constipated look. Uh oh, that’s his thinking face. Pulling the angel off to the side, Dean asks, “Alright, what’s up?”

Frowning and looking down at his hands, it takes Cas a moment to answer. “Unicorns do exist, Dean,” he says softly, “and I know where to find one.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art piece at the end of this chapter

On the road, several hours north of the castle, Dean’s feeling good. He passed all the other challenges, and he wants to find that damn unicorn just to prove to Charlie that it can be done. Thinking back to that evening in the garden, their conversation about why she didn’t want to be forced to marry, Dean can respect that. The fact that culture dictates that she’s gotta get married to a man even when she has no interest in them sucks, but thankfully she’s allowed to set  the rules about it. Of course, she’s been clever, making sure only a couple people are even eligible before sending them on a fool’s errand.

But Dean’s got an angel with him, and… well, he’s never seen a unicorn before. He thought they were extinct. Of course, he’s heard the legends about how they only appear to the pure of heart and all that, but surely Cas can figure something out. Heck, even if he doesn’t get to take it back with them but just to see it would be _awesome_.

Cas leads him off the road and into a stand of trees. Dean asks where they’re headed, but Cas just says they need some assistance. Not understanding but willing to see where it goes, Dean follows. They go to the other side, where the trees thin out to an open field. Cas stops, and closes his eyes.

“What are you—” Cas holds his hand out to shush Dean.

After standing around for a few minutes, Dean hears it, the flapping of great wings. He looks around, but the angel stays cloaked until the last possible second, only revealing himself as he lands. It’s the brown-winged guy from before. What was his name? Started with a B. Anyway, he’s eyeing Cas now.

Brown wings comes up to Cas and gives him a big hug, wrapping his wings around him, too. It makes Dean want to hiss.

“Cassie! I was so surprised to hear from you! Are you alright? Is this human brute mistreating you? I can give him an incurable disease.”

Now that gets a growl from Dean.

“I’m, fine, Balthazar. No diseases required. We need your help,” Cas says, hands spread out between the two.

“Oh, _my_ help? I feel so important! I do wonder why you didn’t call on your dear sister, though.”

Oookay… Dean feels like he’s listening on something private. “Should I just go stand over there while you guys talk?”

Cas rolls his eyes and grabs the Balthazar guy by the arm and drags him a distance away, whispering. Dean makes a game of imagining what they’re saying, especially when Balth’s eyes grow wide at something Cas said.

_‘I actually ate human food. Yeah, it was so good, I orgasmed in my pants.’_

Dean chuckles to himself, and waits for the angels to wander back in his direction. When they finally do, Cas is stomping in front, Balth giving him a strange look behind his back.

“Are you sure you want to do this? With _him_?”

“Please.”

“Fine, fine. Just remember you'll have to find your own way out.”

“Thank you.” Cas turns to Dean. “Are you ready?”

“For what?” Dean asks, confused.

“To go find a unicorn.”

* * *

Dean thought he hated demon magical transport. It just kind of pops you from one place to another, but it can sort of make you feel a little... _stretched_ afterwards, and always leaves Dean feeling disoriented for a second. But angels, they do this weird _flying_ between dimensions shit, and it feels like his stomach is trying to relocate itself somewhere around his feet. And it’s not almost instant like with demons. There’s this space almost, that they drag you through, and Dean would prefer to never do it again.

When they land, it’s like they come back into existence a couple inches off the ground, and since all of Dean’s muscles are locked up, he feels the thud of hitting the ground all the way to his tightly clamped teeth. After taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes.

Wow, they really are somewhere completely different. Everything is a lush green, and they’re on top of a mossy knoll. Tall, snow-capped mountains rise in the distance. Cas and Balth exchange goodbyes, and they’re reminded that they have to find their own way out of here. Which would be fine, if he knew where _here_ was. When he asks Cas, he gets a cryptic non-answer, so he just assumes it’s some weird angel thing that they’re not allowed to reveal the place or some shit.

It’s starting to get dark, so Dean suggests they set up camp and get started in the morning. The wood they find for a fire is fragrant, and the smoke is like incense. Dean wonders if it’s got some weird magic in it, and Cas says no. He wonders if that’s true, because after a plain supper, Dean is more tired than usual. But then again, it could be the effect of having experienced angel transport.

For the next couple days, Cas leads Dean deeper into the forest. Wherever they are, Dean swears it must be enchanted or something, because no forest he’s ever seen has been this green before. And there are more flowers than there should be in mid-summer. Oh, and it’s no trouble finding anything to eat around here. There’s always a ripe fruit tree, or a berry bush, or _something_. And most of the animals are the small, friendly kind. Twittering birds, squirrels that watch them pass from bree branches. He saw a deer once, and it dashed off at their approach.

It’s getting late again, and Dean’s about to suggest they stop for the night, when they crest a hill and find a beautiful waterfall. It’s not very tall, but has multiple steppes where it breaks and cascades down to a shallow pool. With a whoop, Dean heads for the water’s edge. There’s a nice, dry rocky area, and he skids to a stop, dropping his pack. As he hears Cas call to him over the sound of the rushing water, Dean looks up and freezes. On the other side of the shallow pool, just at the edge of the forest, stands a unicorn.

For all intents and purposes, it looks just like a horse. Except for the horn emerging from its forehead, of course. It has a white coat, and a dark muzzle. Its white mane is long and floats in the breeze created by the rushing water. And then, there’s its horn. Long and spiraling, it almost seems to glitter. Shaking its head, the unicorn stares back at Dean with dark eyes, and all he can do is just gawk at it.

He never expected to actually see one. It’s absolutely amazing, and for the first time in a long time, Dean feels humbled by the presence of something. While Dean stares, he notices Cas coming around his peripheral vision. Slowly, Cas approaches the unicorn, until he’s right in front of it, and he reaches out his hand. The unicorn sniffs at it, then lets him place his hand on the muzzle. Cas turns to Dean with this amazing grin on his face, and it lights up his insides to see it.

When Cas waves Dean over, he remembers all the reasons why he shouldn’t even be able to see the thing, let alone touch it. They’re all the same reasons he tries to not touch Cas. Shaking his head, Dean settles on his rear in the rubble on the edge of the waterfall’s pool. Cas frowns at him and mouths, ‘come here’. Dean shakes his head, mouths the word ‘evil,’ and places fingers next to his head, simulating horns. Rolling his eyes, Cas shakes his head, and holds out his hand in a beckoning gesture.

They’re about to chase off a unicorn because Cas won’t let this go. Fine. Slowly, Dean stands up and finds a place to cross the water. There’s a shallow spot with stones further down, so he gingerly hops over, keeping an eye on Cas and the surprisingly serene creature. Finally on the same side, Dean sidles over slowly, waiting for the unicorn to bolt. It shakes its head again, and Dean stills while Cas reaches out to him once again, his other hand on the animal’s neck.

He’s close, so close. If he reached out, he could probably brush Cas’ fingers. The unicorn flares its nostrils, eyeballing him. Cas whispers to it, and it stomps once before settling. Keeping an eye on the wickedly sharp horn, Dean gets close enough and reaches out for Cas’ outstretched hand. When Cas’ fingers wrap around Dean’s hand, he can feel his own heart beating in his ears.

Carefully, slowly, Cas pulls Dean closer until he’s in reach of the unicorn. Cas places Dean’s hand on its neck, and there’s no reaction. Dean, Prince of Hell, is touching a live unicorn, one of the purest creatures in existence. He looks over at Cas, who’s beaming at him. To say Dean’s overwhelmed would be an understatement. Mirth bubbles over and Dean laughs, which startles the beast, and it sidesteps away. Cas follows to calm it, and that brings reality crashing back around him. He’s only allowed this because of Cas.

Mood growing somber, Dean remembers that he’s soiled, evil. He can pretend all he wants, but reality is Cas is an angel, and Dean’s a denizen of Hell, chosen to be the one to rule it. Trained in torture techniques that should make anyone of normal sensibilities aghast at the mere thought. He’d grown to excel, relish the power he could wield with a sharp implement over those on the rack.  

His soul should be black and twisted, but Cas doesn’t look at him that way. He looks at him like… like he is worth saving. And that makes Dean feel things he didn’t know he was capable of feeling. It frightens him, but is thrilling at the same time.

Cas leads the unicorn back over to Dean, and it tosses its head as he encourages Dean to reach out to it again. Sure he’s about to get his fingers bitten off, Dean reaches out, palm up. Cas whispers soothingly to the creature again, and they slowly approach, until Dean can feel the warm breath from its nostrils. He sucks in a surprised breath when it gives his fingers a lick with its tongue. Gently, and with awe, Dean places his palm on its velvety muzzle. The experience is indescribable. Eyes wide, Dean looks up at Cas, who is giving him a strange, soft expression.

* * *

After having settled for the night near the waterfall, Dean has so many questions, and Cas doesn’t seem to know how to answer all of them. Apparently, most of the rules about virgins are out the window, but unicorns usually are only approachable by the pure of heart. That’s obviously a load of bull, and when Dean voices that out loud, Cas gives him this squinty look.

“You really don’t understand, do you?”

“What?”

“I can see your soul, Dean. It’s not nearly as corrupt as you imagine.”

Dean responds with derision. “Well, it sure isn’t _pure_.”

“The unicorn looks into your heart, Dean. And he sees something there, or you would not have been allowed to touch him, in my presence or no.”

He dare not believe the possibility. Otherwise what’s Hell been doing to him all this time? No, there must be some sort of mistake.

Staring into the flames of the small fire they’ve built, Cas says, “What are your plans after we reach the castle?”

“Hmm? Plans? I’m gonna give Charlie the unicorn, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“Wait, I thought…” Cas frowns.

“What? You thought I’d just be able to settle into a role there, take over their kingdom? I’m being hunted, Cas. Or did you forget?”

Cas looks down and away. “What if you abdicated the throne of Hell? Would Abaddon still come after you then?”

Oh. Is that what all this is about? Cas thinks Dean would just take over someone’s kingdom like that, to save his own skin? “Wouldn’t work, she’d want to kill me just in case. And burn Charlie’s kingdom to the ground, just for shits and giggles.”

“I see.”

Dean stares into the fire for a while, thinking about things. Screwing over an entire kingdom does sound like something a demon would do, and sure, Dean’s not against saving his own skin. But he’s not up for cruelty just for its own sake. The only time he’s punished or tortured was when they deserved it. Ruler of Hell has to have some standards, right? It kind of hurts that Cas thinks Dean would be capable of that.

* * *

 

They’re travelling back, and Castiel has a soft, golden rope that Charlie gave him around the unicorn’s neck. Not that they really need it, the creature follows behind quietly enough. He had been a little worried that the unicorn wouldn’t accept Dean, but he never doubted that at heart, Dean was worthy. Seeing his hand on the muzzle of such a pure beast filled Castiel with indescribable warmth. Also, Dean telling him that he wasn’t planning on marrying Charlie lifted a weight on his heart.

For two days they make their way through the forest, following the stream from the waterfall. Every time Castiel has ever come here, it was in flight. But he knows the secret to exiting the forest, so whenever Dean asks him again where they’re going, Castiel tells him to be patient, and just keeps walking.

The third day begins with a walk through a thick fog. They just keep following the sound of the river, and the unicorn stays quiet as they travel. All is good. As the fog clears, the landscape and trees around them are noticeably different, and familiar. Good, they’ve come out closer than he’d anticipated. When the haze is completely gone, Dean looks around.

“Hey, what’s going on? Weren’t we in a completely different forest a couple hours ago?”

With a small smile, Castiel says, “That’s one of the secrets of that forest, Dean.”

“I _knew_ it was enchanted!”

By the time they can make out the spires of the castle, Dean stops. He looks at the unicorn and asks, “Hey, Cas? What do you think they’ll do with the unicorn, when we hand it over?”

Cas thinks about it, frowning. “If it seems they mean him harm, we will make sure the unicorn is set free to return to the forest.”

Dean nods and looks back at the unicorn following placidly behind them. “I don’t doubt that Charlie would treat it right, but the fact she had to go through all this in the first place, just because she doesn’t want to wed… I’m concerned.”

Castiel feels the frown settle deeper on his face. He has often found that living humans can sometimes be as cruel as the evilest of demons. Watching Dean maneuver over a tree root, he wonders how his heart remained so caring while being raised in Hell since a small child. Before they get any closer to the castle, he hands Dean the lead for the unicorn. He’s the one who said he would find it, after all.

As they get closer to the castle, they break from the treeline, and that’s when everything goes a little crazy. Villagers and castle servants all try to get a closer look, and the knights all line up as well as Dean and Castiel approach with a unicorn placidly following behind them. After a couple loud noises make the unicorn shy away, the guards chase off any noisy villagers.

Inside the castle gates, they’re led to a special stable just off the courtyard, it’s relatively small, with space for only a few animals. But it’s been cleaned and is open for the unicorn to explore. The castle’s stablemaster stands in open awe as the animal settles in front of a bucket of oats. Castiel instructs this man of the unicorn’s daily needs. One thing of great importance is fresh, clean drinking water. Also, a unicorn must be allowed regular exercise, and only be restrained to protect it from people. As he gives instructions, the stablemaster writes everything down.

The guards start to lead Dean away, and Castiel rushes to catch up. They’re taken directly to the throne room, where King Bradbury is in attendance, Princess Charlene at his side. The king is beaming, and Charlie is squirming in her seat. The appropriate pleasantries and greetings are exchanged, and the king explains that of course the creature will have to be examined to prove it is really a unicorn.

“Please father, may I go take a look?” asks Charlie.

“Of course, my child. Have Gilda and Dean’s servant take you to the stables. I want to get to know the man that will be marrying into the family.”

Dean and Castiel exchange worried glances, but Charlie is soon dragging Castiel off to see the unicorn. “Don’t worry about Daddy. Dean will say no, and that’s that.”

Down at the stables, the sight of the unicorn makes Charlie produce a squeaking sound, and she claps her hands excitedly. Gilda says something in her native tongue, and the unicorn raises his head. A small “Oh,” escapes her lips as she gravitates to the unicorn, which snuffles around her hair before pressing his muzzle against her chest.

Charlie bounces in place until Gilda leads the unicorn over to introduce them to each other. Her enchanted look of wonder brightens Castiel’s mood, and he watches as they get acquainted. Gilda being able to communicate with the unicorn isn’t surprising, and Castiel remembers hearing about an attack on a fairy kingdom. Perhaps when he’s back in Heaven, he can ask about any other survivors.

Eventually they head back into the castle, where the king is back at his throne, but no Dean in sight. This is where everything goes wrong. As soon as Gilda confirms the unicorn’s authenticity, Castiel is led to a secure chamber, where Dean is waiting. He hears a heavy bolt lock, and Dean curses. The king is insisting that Charlie marry, and since Dean is the one to complete the quest, he’s the one who has to do it. Dean paces, infuriated.

Castiel tries to think of a way out of this that won’t alert any of the Heavenly Host. He can’t ask Balthazar again for help so soon, and Anael would require too much explanation. They almost consider Dean finding a way to have Crowley help, but any demonic attention on this kingdom could be a bad idea.

“What if we say I was the one who captured the unicorn?” Castiel suggests.

They discuss how that probably wouldn’t work, seeing as they’ve already seen Dean leading it. “And besides,” Dean says, “Can you see yourself as the ruler of a human kingdom?”

Castiel grimaces at the thought.

Dean places a hand on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t leave you behind like that, Cas. I promise.”

They sit in the windowless room, surrounded by stone walls, the bolted door their only exit. After some time, they hear Gilda whisper through the door. There’s not much time while the guards are occupied, and the king insists the wedding will be tomorrow.

Gilda can’t betray the king who gave her a place to live after her own land was destroyed. If she was discovered helping them escape, she would be outcast. There's a sound, and she says the guards are coming, and she must go.

Dean and Castiel sit and think, and try to find a way out of this. Eventually a realization helps Castiel formulate a plan. “Dean, I think you should go through with it.”

“Cas, have you lost your mind?”

“No, listen.” Castiel leans forward. “As a Prince, you can help Charlie secure her kingdom. If you’re agreeable and pliant now, then if you wish to leave the kingdom later, there will be less suspicion.”

Dean blinks, and his eyes widen as he gets what Castiel is hinting at. “Oh, like I could take on some kind of quest or something, and just not come back?” He nods, fingers on his chin. “That could work.”

It’s early morning when Castiel hears Gilda back at the door. He tells her what they have planned, and that Charlie should go along with it. She sounds doubtful, but agrees to inform the princess. Some time later, Dean is led from the locked room to prepare for the ceremony. He and Castiel share a look, before he rounds the corner. Castiel is led to the suite where Dean and Charlie will spend their first night as a married couple. He is to make sure everything is ready, along with Gilda.

While they spread linens across the bed that will later be used to consummate the marriage, Castiel can’t help but feel an ache in his chest, and a lump in his stomach. He looks up to see a worried expression on Gilda’s face. Desperate for something else to think about Castiel asks, “How did you end up becoming a servant?”

She says that after the death of the queen, the king was despondent for months. There was a time that Gilda suspected he blamed her for his wife’s death. With nowhere else to go, Gilda started helping the young princess cope with the loss of her mother. They soon became fast friends, and Gilda later officially took the title as Kingdom Mage, but of her own volition she acts more like Charlie’s Maid-in-waiting. “Just like you may become known as Dean’s personal Groom.”

“Remember, we don’t plan on staying.”

Gilda purses her lips, stress causing her brow to crease. “I know that, but… knowing what’s expected of them… and that tonight they… I—”

She bursts into tears, and Castiel comes to sit next to her on the partially made bed. Patting her awkwardly on the shoulder, he thinks about his own feelings on the matter. Of course, Dean is free to be with whoever he wants, but they can be forced to... Can they?

“Gilda… They won’t force… Dean and Charlie… to... to…” He takes a deep breath. “Will they?”

Coughing out a laugh through her tears, she turns to Castiel. “If you mean will they stand around and watch, then no. But they will, um, _inspect_ the bedchambers… in the morning.”

Castiel hums, the knot in his stomach tightening. After Gilda’s crying seems to quiet down, he says, “Those two are quite clever, I’m sure they’ll find a way around it.” She nods, and after a moment, they go back to preparing the room.

Soon everyone is gathered into the great hall for the ceremony. It seems the entire town is there, in spite of the short notice. Castiel is stunned at the sight of Dean. Hair trimmed, beard shaved off, he’s stunning. Castiel had grown so used to seeing him with a beard, he’d forgotten how _young_ Dean is. In a brocaded doublet of black and gold, Dean stands straight with a plain circlet perched on his brow, hands clasped in front, jaw set in a firm line.

Princess Charlene enters in a blue and silver dress, with flowers woven into her bright red hair, and the ceremony starts. Having never watched a human marriage ceremony, Castiel is intrigued, even though the reason for it is bothersome. A man in colorful robes invokes God’s name, but Castiel does not see the point.

There are vows of fidelity and loyalty, and to protect family and kingdom. Both Dean and Charlie are made to affirm these vows, and with each “I will,” his heart sinks a little more. If such vows are in fact invoked in God’s name, then to break them is a terrible thing. After the vows, the robed priest asks if there is anyone present who protests the marriage. Castiel feels Gilda’s hand in his, and she’s squeezing tight, lower lip caught in her teeth, a look of anguish on her face.

Next, is the exchange of betrothal rings, and there are more promises spoken here. Castiel finds he cannot pay attention here, and focuses on a small dove perched in a rafter, the thin fingers of Gilda’s hand clutched in his. At the end of it all, a kiss is announced, and Castiel forces himself to look.

Both Dean and Charlie look awkward, and finally Dean leans down to give her a peck at the corner of her mouth. With that, the hall erupts into cheers, and the priest announces the marriage complete. The couple are led hand-in-hand to the wedding feast, and guests begin to filter their way out as well.  As the open space around him expands, Castiel finds it hard to breathe. Both Dean and Charlie have made their vows to God. It is unthinkable for an angel to consider breaking such vows. Gilda is slumped on a bench, Castiel’s hand still clenched in hers.

With a deep breath, Gilda straightens her spine, and she peels her fingers from his. “We must not be late for the feast, as our presence is expected and necessary.”

Castiel wonders why they’re necessary for this part, but as the feast wears on he begins to understand. Throughout the evening, Dean and Charlie are handed beverages of progressively questionable contents. At least one of them smells downright poisonous. Apparently it’s tradition to give the newly wedded couple beverages intended to increase sexual appetite as well as stamina. Castiel cannot imagine anyone becoming anything but ill after consuming most of the drinks that people try to make Dean and Charlie drink.

Eventually, they allow the newlyweds to retire to their chambers, and they’re followed by a suspicious looking contingent of servants. This is all apparently normal. but Castiel still eyes them warily. Once they reach the bedchamber, Castiel closes the door firmly in the interlopers faces.

He turns to find Dean slumped in an armchair, elbows on his knees and rubbing his face. Charlie and Gilda are leaning against each other, arms slung around each other’s waists. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Castiel places a heavy hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean raises his head from his hands and asks, “So what do we do now?”

With a reassuring squeeze around Charlie’s waist, Gilda says, “We are to prepare you for bed, and leave you alone for the rest of the evening.”

“Wait, you guys don’t actually expect us to go through with this, do you?” Dean says with an incredulous look toward Castiel.

Unable to take much more of this, Castiel heads toward the dressing room set up for Dean. As he makes his way through the door, he hears Gilda say, “Castiel said you would think of something.”

A linen sleepshirt is already laid out, and Castiel runs his fingers over the fabric. Dean clears his throat behind him. “You okay, Cas?”

Unable to speak, Castiel closes his eyes and turns his head away, unable to face Dean right now. Why does this hurt so much? It’s not like they’ve ever… Dean places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “Hey, you know I’d never do anything to hurt Charlie, right?”

Castiel nods. Of course not. But what about Castiel? Everything that’s happened today has driven a spike deep into his heart. He shouldn’t even feel this way, but what is he supposed to do about it? How can he make it _stop_?

After awkwardly helping Dean change into his nightshirt, Castiel closes the door to the bedchamber as soon as Dean exits. Unable to be near that room a moment longer, Castiel slips out the servant’s door and makes his way downstairs. Without realizing where he’s even going, Castiel finds himself at the unicorn’s stables. Hiding in one of the unused stalls, Castiel collapses and heaves a shuddering breath.

Perhaps it _is_ time to go home. He’s obviously too attached to Dean to do anything properly. If he explains to Anael, maybe he can only escape with a moderate punishment. As long as it doesn’t involve interacting with anything human for a long time.

There’s a snuffle at his shoulder, and the unicorn is looking at him with soulful eyes. “Hello there. I’m sorry we went looking for you and dragged you back here.” The unicorn snorts, and shakes his mane. Castiel scratches behind his ears, and the unicorn likes it so much he ends up finding a brush and taking care of his whole coat.

While putting away the brush, Castiel hears someone approach. He hides just in time to see Dean and Charlie come into the stable. Why are they here? They should be… well, maybe this is a better alternative. But Castiel remains hidden anyway, peeking in between two slats of wood.

Dean and Charlie are wearing soft leather slippers and long robes. They’re whispering to each other happily, and another spear of pain shoots through Castiel’s heart at the sound. Charlie pets the unicorn’s muzzle and says, “So Cas is the one who actually caught him?”

“Yeah. But he was all, ‘You’re the one who said you’d catch it,’ so here I am.” Dean shrugs, and Charlie laughs at his rough voiced impression of  Castiel.

“Then he truly is pure of heart.”

Dean huffs, “And then some.”

“That must make you the scoundrel,” Charlie teases.

“Hey, we made a deal. If you want, I can head out right now and leave you to your kingdom.”

Castiel bit his lip in order to avoid making noise. Did he hear that right?

“No no no, not yet!” Charlie rushes out. “Daddy’d just go chasing after you. Wait at least a week, maybe two. Then we’ll find you some foolish quest upon which to embark.”

Sighing, Dean leans up against the wall. “As you wish, your Highness.”

Charlie starts plaiting a section of the unicorn’s mane. “I’d also appreciate you not taking advantage of me tonight.”

Dean groans. “Come on. Even if you were into men, I’d ask first.”

There’s a smug humpf from Charlie. “So you’d try otherwise?”

“What can I say? I’m easy.”

“About being _into men_ …” Charlie’s voice has a curious lilt. “I’ve seen the way you look at Castiel, like he’s sooo dreamy,” she teases.

Castiel’s hands curl into fists. He shouldn’t be hearing this, it’s only going to hurt worse. But he can’t bring himself to move.

“Heh, let’s just say that between me and Cas? It’s pretty complicated.”

“Why, because he’s not human?”

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, let’s not get into that.”

“Sorry,” Charlie’s voice takes on a sulky tone. “I understand how that goes, trust me.”

They spend a few quiet moments, Charlie continuing to plait strands of the unicorn’s mane, Dean leaning against the wall. Castiel holds completely still, shocked at what he’s just heard. Charlie finishes one last plait and claps her hands together.

“Hey, I have a deck of cards. Do you know the rules for whist?”

After they leave, Castiel lets out a shuddering breath. He knew that there were times Dean looked at him a certain way, but that was only because of the blood, right? And it’s like Dean said, it’s complicated. Oh so complicated. Standing, Castiel wraps his arms around the unicorn’s neck and buries his face against the soft, silky coat.

Castiel is not allowed to want what he wants. What he wants is treason, against his own brethren, against God. Would he be willing to Fall for Dean? He thinks about the other angels that Fell from Lucifer’s seduction. What’s to say he’s not being led into a similar trap?

Fat tears roll down his cheeks, and he wipes them away on the unicorn’s neck. Fingers idly moving, he begins to unplait a section of mane, and a few hairs come loose. Oh. These are valuable, precious.

“May I keep these?”

The unicorn snuffles and tosses his head.

“Thank you. I will keep them as a reminder of you.”

Twisting the hairs together, Castiel tucks the hairs under the waistband of his trousers. He can put them away in a pouch later.


	10. Chapter 10

The next few days, Dean learns all about the kingdom, the castle, and all the workings that go on therein. It’s much more different than running Hell in some aspects, frighteningly familiar in others. In the mornings he sits with the king and observes all the paperwork that goes into keeping everything running, and in the afternoons he’s free to explore. If it weren’t for the afternoons, he’d be bored to tears. Not even Hell requires that much paperwork to run. 

Everyone believes that Dean has settled in as the new prince of the kingdom, and nobody suspects that he’s been merely sleeping next to Charlie every night. It took some ingenuity, a little bit of Charlie’s blood, and ten minutes alone-time to fool those who came to inspect the bedclothes the morning after their wedding that they’d done the deed. 

Cas at least seems to be keeping himself occupied. He spends most of his time either in the castle’s library, or out observing the knights and guards. Kevin made the cut, as well as a young woman named Johanna who has a whole lot of attitude. Cas will spend hours watching their training, or will converse with the commandant about strategies.

Honestly, Dean doesn’t understand why Cas is sticking around. There’s so much he could be doing other than babysitting Dean. After all, they haven’t seen or heard from anything demonic. Even so, he’s glad to see the angel and have him close by. 

The food’s not bad, either. Dean’s spent time getting to know the cooks, especially the one who refused to make him a pie that one time. She now indulges him by making the best apple pie he’s ever tasted. 

And then there’s Charlie. Silly princess with a huge crush on the court mage, Gilda. Those two are always fawning all over each other, and he’s surprised they haven’t figured out how to get past that. When he’d asked Charlie how intimately they knew each other, she’d flushed as red as her hair and thrown a book at him. 

But seriously, those two. They’re practically made for each other. So maybe Dean spends a little extra time trying to play matchmaker with them. He’ll send Gilda in to check on Charlie while she’s taking a bath, or find reasons to have the two off by themselves. Hey, he never said he was good at this stuff. It’s mostly things they do together anyway, but he tries to arrange it so they’re completely alone. 

Today, he’d suggested to Gilda that Charlie might like some blueberries, and he saw a bush just bursting with ripe ones that happened to be in a secluded corner. Then, after he was sure Gilda was occupied, told Charlie about the blueberry bush, too. If he’s lucky, they should be feeding each other fruit right about now.

He’s feeling pretty smug when a small folded note says to head out where the knights train. Hmm, wonder what that’s about? The commandant has been asking him about his skill with weapons. Maybe he can pass the afternoon getting some practice in with the soldiers. But when he arrives the sparring yard is empty, except for Cas. The angel is staring into the trees on the other side, oblivious. Seeing his opportunity, Dean tries to sneak up on him. But just before Dean can reach for a grab, Cas spins, knocking Dean off balance and sending him flat on his back into the dirt.

Cas stands over him in a defensive stance, surprise all over his face. Heh, someone wasn’t paying attention. 

“Letting people sneak up on you can get you killed, you know.” Dean sports a half grin, holding his hand out.

Cas grasps it, and pulls Dean to his feet. And for just a moment, they stand there, hands clasped, staring into each other’s eyes. At least until Dean can’t help but flick his eyes down to Cas’ mouth. The taste of those wide, creased lips is like a distant memory. But then Cas steps back, and Dean’s snapped back to the present. 

Biting his lip, Dean asks, “So what’re we doing here?”

Cas glances at him and then down at his hands. “I received a note to be here. I assumed there would be some sort of knight or guard practice today.”

Dean nods, and takes an obvious look around. “Yeah, well… there’s nobody here but us.”

He suspects this is all Charlie’s fault somehow. “So, there’s no knights or guards, but when’s the last time you had a good sparring match?”

Cas seems to debate this for a while, then falls into an attack stance. Maybe this is what he needs, work off some of this aggression. It’s been a while since they’ve run into any monsters. Dean puts up his hands into a boxer’s defense, and begins bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

They spar for a while, dodging punches, kicks, and other attacks. One tries to put the other into some type of hold, and the other counters to pull free. Dean likes this, and he slips into a headspace where everything is attack and defend. 

Eventually, Dean gets the upper hand and manages to topple Cas to the ground, face first. Before he can recover, Dean pounces on top, pinning him down. This is also where Dean makes a mistake. In his current mindset, he’s elated at having brought down his opponent. He takes a moment to look down at the muscular body beneath him, the flex of his back under his thin shirt, the swell of Cas’ ass between his thighs. 

But something happens, and Cas manages to take him off-balance, and the next thing he knows, Cas is straddling him, and Dean’s hands are pinned to the ground. Nice, that was a smooth reversal. While tempted to flip the angel over, Dean decides to mess with him first. Going completely lax, Dean turns his head to one side, exposing his neck.

Cas, apparently unphased, says, “Do you yield?”

Looking at his opponent sideways, Dean gives a sly grin and rocks his hips up, rolling his pelvis against Cas’. “I dunno, do I?”

Completely not expecting sexual innuendo, Cas blinks, and loosens his grip. That’s all Dean needs, and he flips Cas over his head. Dean rolls onto his feet, and faces Cas, who’s also on his feet, body tense. 

“I think that’s enough for now,” Cas says in a low tone, dusting off the front of his shirt. 

The thought of grappling with Cas again is enticing, but yeah, it’s probably better they quit now before Dean pushes too far. Dean coughs and dusts off the back of his trousers. 

“Yeah, should probably wash up.” He dashes past Cas, and jogs backwards to shout, “Last one back has to heat the water!” 

He sees Cas start after him, so Dean takes off toward the closest castle entrance. They race through the servant quarters, startling some in the halls. Dean bolts out a door and across the courtyard, toward the royal suites. Then he’s up a set of stairs, hearing the footfalls of the angel close behind. A sharp corner comes up, and Dean slides on the flagstone floor, Cas catching the corner and hugging it tight. He reaches out for Cas’ shirt tail, and gives it a tug. This throws Cas off just enough to slip past.

The door to his suite in sight, Dean gives a victory whoop and tugs at the hem of his own shirt. Through the door, he pulls it over his head, and skids to a stop as he gets tangled up. Cas whizzes past, and slaps the door to the bathing room. 

Dean finally gets the shirt off over his head, and stalks up to Cas, pressing him up against the wall and caging him with his arms. Cas is only slightly winded, and he juts his chin out in defiance.

“You said whoever lost would heat up the water.” 

Dean takes a deep breath, feeling the exhilaration from the race. “You wouldn’t make a prince heat his own water now, would you?”

Cas cocks an eyebrow and stands up straight. “I have before.” 

There’s a streak of dirt across Cas’ cheek, and Dean wants to reach out and brush it off. He explores Cas’ face, taking in the messy hair, eyes dark in the shadowed light of the room, those cheekbones, and down to to his mouth, where his lips are slightly parted. On impulse, Dean leans forward, pressing their lips together. It pulls a surprised gasp from Cas, and Dean licks in between his lips. 

Ohh, this is the taste he’s missed, not the metallic tang of blood, but of  _ Cas _ , something indescribable like… sunlight. He presses closer, feeling Cas’ hard body against his, opens his mouth to delve deeper. And then he feels hands in his hair, and Cas is  _ kissing back _ , his tongue sliding eagerly against Dean’s. 

He must be dreaming. Either that, or he hit his head on something, because this can’t really be happening. Except it’s so much better than anything he’s dreamed before, hands grabbing handfuls of hair, Cas’ inexperienced lips and tongue taking their time to explore Dean’s mouth, breath hot against his cheek. Afraid to have this end, Dean presses closer, more desperate, and his hands slip up under Cas’ shirt sliding up that toned back. Yes, the feel of Cas against him is exquisite, and Dean presses closer, holding onto Cas like he’ll vanish into ether if he lets go. 

His hard length presses against Cas’ thigh, and there’s a responding weight against his. Fuck, yes! Cas does want this, and elation leaves Dean dizzy, a needy sound escaping his throat. With a roll of his hips, he grinds down, giving both of them some friction. 

With a shuddering cry, Cas pulls away. Gone are the grasping hands in Dean’s hair, the hot mouth and tongue against his. His hands are removed from Cas’ body, and the next thing he knows, the door to the bathing room slams shut, the lock clicking into place. What the  _ fuck  _ just happened?

* * *

 

Castiel stands pressed against the door of the bathroom, one hand still on the bolt he’d slid into place. Gasping for breath, he tries to make sense of what he felt, and what he still feels. For just a moment he had been completely surrounded by  _ Dean _ . His taste, his scent, his hands, his body. For a blessed moment, it was almost as if Dean’s soul was filling Castiel with his light.

But then with a grind of the hips, Dean reminded Castiel of the carnality of it all. It was not some melding of themselves, but simply sexual tension. It was all he could do to peel Dean off of him and hide. Yes, it's cowardly, but he just can’t… can’t deal with his emotions, with these  _ urges _ . 

Because he’s falling in love with a man he can’t have. Oh, he wasn’t sure at first, but the more time he spends with Dean, the more he begins to realize this is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Castiel is afraid he would do  _ anything  _ for Dean. 

Glaring at his wilting erection, Castiel sets a fire to heat water for a bath. Not his, no. He will bathe in cold water, a reminder to not become so comfortable with human comforts. He distracts himself with laying out a fresh towel, some soap, a bath sachet. The tub here is different from what they first used as guests at the castle. This one is a large iron vessel, one in which a man can lounge in and soak. He draws water from the pump, a fascinating invention that allows water to be used without hauling numerous buckets up stairs. After the large heating pot is topped off, Castiel fills the tub about halfway with regular water and waits for the pot to be ready. 

As soon as the bath is an appropriate temperature, Castiel opens the door to the sleeping chambers. Dean’s leaning against the bed, and at the sight of Castiel he rushes forward. “What was all that about, Cas?” His voice sounds raw. 

Castiel merely backs from the door and gestures at the tub, eyes lowered. “Your bath is ready,” he grates out, before disappearing through the servant entrance. Down the stairs, along the hallway, and past the kitchen he goes without stopping. Once he’s in the servant quarters he slows, takes a deep breath. There’s a shared bath here, and spare clothing. He finds the harsh soap used by the laborers to remove stains, and a coarse washcloth. 

Using the coldest water he can find, Castiel scrubs himself from head to toe. His traitorous penis, now flaccid, gets a thorough scrubbing as well, as if he can punish it into behaving. By the time he’s rinsed, dried and dressed, he can hear others milling about in the exterior rooms. Soon it will be time for supper, and Castiel should be in attendance.

* * *

He should be accustomed to the strained tension between them by now. it occurs every time things get too personal, whenever they get too close. Yet he still has trouble looking anywhere in Dean’s vicinity all through the meal, and even pretending to eat is such a chore that Gilda asks him what’s wrong. Where should he begin? He tells Gilda “nothing,” and shoves a piece of bread into his mouth to avoid having to answer further questions.

After supper, Castiel quietly prepares Dean and Charlie’s bedchamber for sleep, and it’s a harsh reminder of why he cannot have what he wants. He sets out Dean’s sleep clothes, then tries to slip out, only to have Dean block his way. 

“Hey, what’s up with you?” 

Castiel refuses to look him in the eye, choosing to focus on a shoulder instead. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

Dean sighs heavily. “You act like this whenever you and I… When we…” His hand makes a vague waving gesture. “You pull away, and avoid me, just like you’re doing now.”

Oh, is that so? Castiel finally meets Dean’s eyes, mouth pursed. “You are equally to blame for avoidant behavior after such… occurrences. You refused to look directly at me after the lamia, and that time I caught you… pleasuring yourself in the woods—”

“Yeah, enough, Cas.” Dean purses his lips, brows in a thought-filled crease. “But all those times were… different.”

Unsure how that can be so, Castiel squints and tilts his head. “Please enlighten me on the differences.”

Dean wipes a hand over his eyes. “Shit. We’re really going to discuss this. Fine.” He places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel is unsure if it’s meant as a reassurance, and if so for whom. “Before, it always involved your blood. I thought that’s all it was.”

Castiel ponders this. It’s true, he’d thought the same at first. But he continued to feel this way, even after they found a less invasive solution. Dean stopped avoiding him, but never attempted to become intimate, so Castiel thought the emotions were merely one-sided. Surely even now, it’s merely a physical reaction on Dean’s part?

“Angels aren’t meant for carnal pleasure, Dean. Not the way you intend. We… form a bond, and seek no other.”

He removes Dean’s hand from his shoulder. “I cannot afford to continue forming such a bond with you.”

Dean’s eyes grow wide, and his hand clamps down on Castiel’s. “Continue, Cas?”

Castiel tries to pull away, but Dean holds tight. “I’m sorry, please don’t go. Just… I need you to know,” He swallows and blushes slightly. “It’s not all, uh, just… carnal; it’s more than that for me, too.”

Oh, dear Father, no. This can’t be happening, it  _ shouldn’t _ — But Castiel can’t find the energy to remove himself from Dean’s grasp. He tries to pull away, but Dean places his hands on Castiel’s face, presses their foreheads together. 

“Please, Cas. Don’t run away from me.” His voice is thick with emotion, and it makes Castiel even more weak. “I need you.”

And he knows he’s lost. Castiel is as good as Fallen, and he will most likely never see Heaven again. Lowering his head to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel rasps, “I’m here.”

Dean wraps his arms around him, and Castiel allows himself to be held. He holds onto Dean’s shirt, unable to fully grasp that he’s allowed to have this, part of him still waiting for it to be taken away from him. Because it still can. There is still so much to discuss, but right now he basks in the warmth of Dean’s arms.

Eventually Dean pulls away, and places a kiss on the top of Castiel’s head. “Hey, you wanna talk about this more?”

Shaking his head, Castiel says, “No,” and pulls away. “We can discuss this later.” Looking into Dean’s eyes, he can see a vulnerability there, and he wants to protect that for now. “Let’s get you dressed for bed.” 

As usual, Castiel turns away to give Dean privacy, but this time Dean reaches for his hand when he’s finished, pulls Castiel close. “I wish it were you.”

Castiel hums in question, lulled by their closeness, looking into the amber-green of Dean’s eyes in the lamplight.

Dean’s thumb strokes the edge of his jaw. “Sleeping next to me, I wish it were you.”

And once again, the pain of reality pulls Castiel away. “Dean, no.”

“What did I say now?”

“You and Charlie, you made a promise. Not just to each other, but also to God.”

“Cas,” Dean sounds exasperated. “You realize  _ what  _ I am, right?”

“Dean, it doesn’t matter who or what you are. Surely you were taught the importance of a contract.”

“Heh, yeah. Enough to know there are ways around them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean is being way too flippant about all this.

“Follow me.” Dean grabs Cas’ hand and leads him to the bedroom, where Charlie and Gilda are seated upon the bed, heads close together, conversing quietly. “Hey, Charlie!”

They startle, and Gilda clambers off the bed with a guilty look. Charlie, however, focuses on their held hands. Clapping excitedly, she asks if she needs to get a separate room. Dean sputters and tells her to shut up.

“Tell Cas here what we did when we said our vows.”

She tilts her head. “You mean so they weren’t legally binding?”

“Exactly.”

She gets up on her knees, and waves Castiel over. When he’s within reach, she grasps his hand, and crosses two fingers. “First of all, our fingers were crossed the whole time.”

Castiel looks down, not understanding the significance. 

“And then, every time we repeated the vows, we whispered,” She gets close to his ear, and breathes out, “Not.”

Castiel pulls back to look at her mischievous grin. “That’s deceitful.” 

“But it works, doesn’t it?”

Frowning, Castiel takes in Dean’s smug smirk, Gilda’s flippant shrug. He’s among scoundrels, all of them.

“Sooo,” Charlie’s poking him in the ribs, repeatedly. “Do we need to leave you boys alooone?”

“No, I need…” Castiel sees Dean’s smugness fade. “I need some time to think about all this.” 

With a heavy sigh, Charlie flops back on the bed. Castiel places a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passes, gives it a squeeze. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He spends the rest of the night and early morning perched on the ledge of Charlie’s tower, watching the stars spin overhead, and the light of dawn transform the land.

* * *

Breakfast is usually a private affair, so it’s at lunchtime that Charlie announces to her father, “Daddy, my husband snores. I want a separate room.”

Summarily, the afternoon is spent relocating to a different set of rooms, where Dean and Charlie sleep separately, but with adjoining bath areas.

For the next couple of days, not that much changes between Dean and Castiel. Dean still accompanies the king in the mornings, and in the afternoons he explores. Castiel still spends most of his time in the library or out watching the knights and guards train. But there is one subtle difference. 

Whenever they find themselves in a secluded area together, Dean will pull Castiel close and press a kiss to his lips. It rarely devolves into more, for Castiel is hyperaware of everyone else around them, and the prevailing view on homosexual relationships. There’s a reason Charlie wasn’t allowed to just marry Gilda, and it’s not because Gilda is a fairy. So even though he thrills at each kiss, they make sure to keep them secret and chaste. 

However, at night in the privacy of Dean’s new room, Dean tries to push those boundaries. His kisses are dizzying, tongue hot and probing. Hands roam, mapping the planes of Castiel’s torso. But as soon as Dean reaches for more… erogenous areas, Castiel pulls back. He still feels uncomfortable with that level of intimacy. This is still all so new, and it’s frankly overwhelming.

Every time Castiel pulls away, Dean sighs and gets this disappointed look that almost makes Castiel give in, but Dean never pushes any further. Well, except for tonight. Dean calls him into the bathroom, and there he is, sprawled out in the tub, arms resting along the edge. His muscled torso flexes, and the tip of his erection bobs out of the water. “Wash my back?” he says with a wicked smile. Castiel closes his eyes and shuts the door. Firmly. 

* * *

It’s after lunchtime, and Castiel is restless. It’s odd, because he can’t tell why. Nothing can hold his attention for very long, and he finds himself staring off into the distance. It’s not until a border guard rides in hard on his horse, both exhausted, that it all falls into place. One of the border towns has been attacked. What’s odd, is the guard can’t really say who attacked it or why. He was just on patrol, and passed through the torn-apart town. All the people had vanished, but he noticed bloodstains, and a couple huts had burned down from unattended cooking fires.

Before a proper unit of knights can be organized, Castiel is ready to travel, and he demands the guard lead him there on a fresh horse. One of the new recruits, Johanna, knows the town, and volunteers to go with him as a scout. While it doesn’t take long before they’re off, it feels like too long, that every minute that slips by is wasted.

When they arrive, Castiel can tell right away this was demons. He can smell their sulfurous stench, can feel the evil radiating from the land. Johanna frantically searches some of the buildings, having known the victims. Castiel doesn’t know how to tell her that they’re all gone.

The demons that aren’t allowed to take a regular human shape need hosts to occupy on land. This looks like a typical raid, one that usually leads to a larger battle. Knowing that this is most likely related to Dean’s exile, Castiel must return to the castle immediately. Frustrated by not being able to fly without attracting attention, he rides his already tired horse back to the castle, doing what he can in small bursts of Grace to minimize any damage. 

Upon his return, Castiel locates Dean and tells him to find Charlie and Gilda, immediately. They meet in Dean’s room, and Castiel explains that they must go. Abaddon is too close, and if she discovers Dean here, the entire kingdom will be decimated. Charlie tries to argue, but Gilda places a hand on her shoulder.

“This was always supposed to be temporary. While you have become friends, Dean is doing this to protect you, to protect your kingdom.”

“But we can fight, can't we? There has to be something we can do.” Charlie looks at Castiel, pleading.

Perhaps there is something they can do, to at least protect the people. “Gilda, follow me. Charlie, Dean, think of an excuse for us to leave, and quickly. We no longer have the luxury of time.” With Gilda, Castiel goes to see the unicorn. Together they devise a warding system for Middleton and the castle. That night, with their combined magic, they create a barrier to repel demonic forces. It incorporates the castle and the surrounding lands in a circle large enough to include the village.

If anything, at least the people of the kingdom will have a place to fall back upon if something goes wrong. And as long as Gilda and the unicorn remain in residence, the barrier should hold unless under extensive attack. But hopefully by then, Castiel can call other angels to assist. 

The next morning, Dean and Charlie have spun a tale of a frightful beast that consumes entire villages worth of people in one gulp. Castiel can’t believe that the king readily accepts their tale, giving Dean full access to whatever he needs to prepare for the search to find the dreaded creature. Unfortunately, they must also bring a contingent of knights with them as well. How are they going to get rid of them?

Castiel has forgoten that Gilda is the court mage. She concocts a draught that will make whoever consumes it have shared night terrors. When they awaken, they will all believe they were attacked by a monster. If the prince and his manservant are missing in the morning, they will assume the worst. While Castiel dislikes so much deceit, it is a necessary evil.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Explicit rating.

Gilda’s draught works like a charm, with Dean and Cas escaping the group of knights during the first night of camp. They take horses, and are far from the group of knights and Charlie’s kingdom come morning. With Abaddon on the move, Dean doesn’t wish to stop, and only pauses long enough to alert Crowley that they need to speak. They stop to give the horses a breather, but only make camp when necessary.

They decide it’s best to go alert Sam, let him know what’s happening, so they head toward the monastery. The second night, they stop to make camp, since the horses are exhausted. Cas rubs them down while Dean gets a fire going.

This is all his fault. He just _had_ to participate in the Knight’s Run, and then let his cockiness push him to keep going. If he’d just told Cas to leave the unicorn where they’d found it, they’d be somewhere else. But what if they hadn’t been there when they’d heard about the demon attack on the border town? What if the demons make it all the way to the castle, and nobody knows what they’re dealing with? Dean continues to mentally flagellate himself with what-if scenarios until Cas places a hand on his shoulder.

“Dean, I don’t think that piece of wood deserves your wrath.”

He looks down to see where he’d been intending to shave the end of a long stick to a point to use as a pole. He’s whittled it down to a thin twig and a pile of shavings. With a disgusted sigh, Dean throws what’s left of it into the fire.

“You’re blaming yourself for this, aren't you?” Castiel squats next to him.

Before he can answer, there’s a shift in the air, and Crowley is standing on the other side of the fire. “Lovely evening. You called?”

Dean explains what’s happening, minus his stint as the prince of a kingdom, and their growing relationship. He can tell Crowley knows parts are being left out, but the old demon doesn’t need to know that. It’s bad enough Crowley keeps looking between him and Cas like there’s a foul smell in the air.

“Hmm. Abaddon has been amassing forces. I think she’s about to try another siege against the angels. They’re supposedly holding something very powerful that she wants. I don’t know what that might be though.” Crowley turns to Cas. “Any idea, flying monkey?”

Cas is obviously trying to not rise to the bait. “The Heavenly Host holds many wondrous artifacts in its possession. Many could wreak massive destruction in the wrong hands. Without consulting the archangels, I’m afraid I couldn’t even hazard a guess.”

“Fat lot of good you are,” Crowley scoffs.

Dean tries to get him back on track. “Crowley, is there anything that you can think of that can stop Abaddon?”

The demon stands straight puffing out his chest. “I’ve already been looking into that, while you’ve been up here fraternizing with feathers-for-brains.”

“That’s enough Crowley.” Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, and he can practically _feel_ Cas bristling next to him. “Find anything good?”

Lifting his nose in the air, Crowley says, “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“Great. We’re headed to go see Sam, and then back to the hut with its protection sigils.” Dean stands up, and places a fond hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “You don’t know what it means to me to have you in my corner.”

Crowley brushes him off, but Dean can tell he’s pleased. “No need to get sentimental. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something concrete.”

He sniffs, and looks Dean in the eye. “Be careful of the path you take my prince. There are some roads that are irreversible.”

What does the Hell does that mean? Before Dean can ask, Crowley’s gone, only a wisp of sulfurous smoke in his wake. Damn demon and his riddles.

* * *

It’s another day and a half of hard travel before Dean and Cas reach the village below the monastery. They get a room a the inn on the outskirts, send word to Sam, and Dean enjoys being able to sit in a real chair and not a saddle, and being able to eat something not dried. While waiting on Sam to show up, Dean finds a card game in progress to sit in on.

Sam must find Cas first, because they’re standing side-by-side, glaring at Dean, while he’s selecting the next card to play in his hand. He’ll finish this round, take his winnings, and _then_ they’ll catch up. But no, the Judgmental Duo keep lurking, and Dean’s starting to get sideways looks from the other players. Discarding his current hand, Dean takes his winnings and leads Sam and Cas up the stairs to their room for the night.

As soon as they’re inside, Sam wraps Dean in a crushing hug. “I was worried, I haven’t heard from either of you for a few weeks!”

“Yeah, about that.” Dean actually tells the story of how he ended up getting married to a princess, and his younger brother reacts in the typical Sammy way, with exclamations of indignation, disbelief, and disappointed looks.

“And you just went along with all this?” Sam asks Cas.

“Most of what he does is without my full knowledge of his motivations.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Sounds about right.”

“However, I’ve found him to exceed my expectations as a decent human being,” Cas says with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey!” Dean scowls, because regardless of how hard Sam laughs at that, it’s not funny.

Cas’ mouth quirks in an attempt not to smile. “I must admit, I had very low expectations.”

Dean stews, arms crossed. Here he is, both his angel and his brother making fun of him, while he’s trying to save the world. It’s actually kind of funny, but he’d never give either of them the satisfaction by admitting it.

The rest of the evening they talk about how awesome Charlie’s castle actually was, with the yearly recruitment run, and the kitchen, whose cooks can make almost anything, and the massive library. Dean and Cas pick up right where the other leaves off, and Dean’s starting to notice how Sam’s looking between the two of them, speculation flickering in his eyes. Of course, the last thing he needs right now is a lecture about doing the right thing from his baby brother.

When there’s a lull in conversation, Dean lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. The last few days have really worn him out, and sleeping in a real bed sounds like a fantastic idea. “You staying here or heading back for the night, Sammy?”

Sam glances out the window and seems shocked to find it’s dark outside. “Oh, I really should head back to the monastery. It might be a couple days before I can get completely free. You mind if I meet up with you at the hut?”

Nodding sleepily, Dean comes over to his brother and gives him a one-armed hug around his shoulders. “Stay safe. Hey, Cas? You mind walking him back?”

Dean fully expects Sam to protest, but both of them are almost a bit too agreeable. Maybe they’re going to talk about feelings and shit along the way. Feh. As long as he’s the one not having to do it. Although he’s sure that at some point Sammy will corner him and wanna talk about it all. As soon as they’re out the door, Dean’s head hits the pillow.

* * *

The next morning, they make the normally two hour trip to the hut in half that time using the horses. Opening the door, it’s exactly as they left it, although maybe a bit dustier. After getting the horses unpacked, Cas goes to check on his armor cache, while Dean sorts through their packs. There’s a small package, and Dean unwraps it to find a little wooden toy shaped like an angel, with wings that flap if you pull a string on the bottom.

He remembers when Cas found it, he was so excited and talked about his sister’s human toy collection. The shopkeeper had tried to give it to them, but Dean had insisted on paying full price. It didn’t feel right otherwise, especially since he knew their situation was only temporary. Carefully wrapping the toy back up, Dean places it on the table with some of Cas’ other things.

While sorting through their clothes, Dean picks up one of Cas’ shirts. Taking a whiff, he remembers how he used to think that Cas just smelled… clean. But over time, he’s picked up on nuances. There’s the hint of the first green of spring, a whiff of a waterfall in summer. He takes a deep breath, nose buried in the rough cotton. A faint trace of wool, and something sweet. Sunlight on feathers. It all adds up to this nebulous scent that he’s come to recognize as _Cas_. With a small smile, Dean smooths his hand over the shirt and puts it down.

Cas comes into the hut, carrying two buckets of water. Shit, Dean should have started a fire, but Cas acts like it’s no big deal to have to start it himself. He really needs to stop treating Cas like a servant. Especially now that they’re away from the castle, it just feels wrong. After everything the angel has done, not just for him but just about everyone he comes across, Dean feels inferior.

As Cas grabs one of the buckets to pour into the big pot for heating, Dean grabs it, and pours it for him. “I could have done that—” Cas starts to protest.

Dean cuts him off with a soft kiss, hands cradling his strong jaw. “It can wait, Cas,” he whispers against plush lips, before dipping in for another gentle kiss. He needs to show Cas just how much he’s appreciated.

This time, Cas kisses back, hands coming up to rest at Dean’s sides. Dean slides one hand back to entangle his fingers in Cas’ hair, the other slips down to his collarbone, thumb tracing his accelerating pulse. Tilting his head to the side, he deepens the kiss, tongue sweeping out to taste the part in Cas’ lips. He keeps it gentle, and is rewarded with a soft sigh as Cas responds with his own explorations, hands gripping tighter.

Mouth curled into a smile, Dean guides Cas over to the bed, gently nibbling at his lips.

“Dean, what?” Cas’ voice is low and breathy, his expression dazed.

Pressing another soft kiss to his lips, Dean slides his hands to Cas’ shoulders, and nudges him to sit. “Shh, let me do something for you, take care of you for a change.”

Cas obeys, his knees practically giving out, and he bounces on the bed, looking up at Dean with wide eyes full of trust. Oh God, Dean doesn’t deserve that look, but he wants it. Kneeling before Cas, he slides his hands down toned arms, and grasps Cas’ wrists, tugging him forward for another kiss.

He reminds himself to not push, to keep it slow and gentle. This isn’t about what Dean wants, but about Cas. It’s the only way he can think to give something back to the angel, and he doesn’t want to mess this up, considering the angel’s usual reaction to physical pleasure. He rests Cas’ hands on his shoulders, and reaches for the hem of his shirt. Hands slide under and up until he’s palming the smooth, firm abdomen, and traces up to his muscular chest.

Feeling a slight tremor at his touch, Dean pulls back to look at Cas. Eyes closed, slick lips parted and pink, his expression is one of wonder and pleasure. Dean leans forward and with his teeth, pulls loose the tie of Cas’ shirt collar. He presses kisses along his jaw as he works the shirt up to his shoulders, then leans back enough to slip it over his head, pull it down his arms, and toss it toward the head of the bed.

With so much skin on display, Dean caresses it with his hands, fingers trailing lightly across the planes of muscle. His hard-earned lessons in anatomy, once used to torture, he now uses to soothe and tantalize, drawing pleased gasps. Dean catalogues every reaction, from the way he leans into what feels especially good, to where he’s ticklish and twitches away with a huff.

Castiel’s skin is golden and flawless, and Dean kisses a mole near his right nipple. Hands sink into his hair, and Dean dares to flick his tongue against the dusky nub. It produces a whimper, and Dean moves on, noting the mix of pleasure and surprise in each reaction. He continues to press soft kisses all over his skin, tracing his abdominal muscles, outlining his pectorals, nibbling along his clavicle. If Dean were to have a place in Heaven, this would be it.

By now Cas is clinging to Dean, the only thing keeping him upright. Sliding his hands up to Cas’ shoulderblades, Dean licks up his neck, traces the shell of his ear with his tongue, and whispers, “I’ve got you.”

He lowers Cas slowly to the bed, then leans over him, gazing down into his face, watches as his eyes slowly open to gaze back. Pupils dilated with arousal, Cas licks his lips as he gazes up at him. Seeing the angel look so unguarded nearly undoes Dean, and he buries his face in Cas’ neck. He wants to bite, to mark, to _claim_ , but that’s not what this is about, he reminds himself as he takes a deep breath of Cas’ scent.

Cas grazes his hands down Dean’s back, soothing. His breath hitches, and hands grip the hem of Dean’s shirt. He says, “May I… see you?”

Dean nods, and Cas wastes no time pulling the shirt over his head. He gets caught on the sleeves, and Dean sits up to pull the shirt from his arms. Once he’s free of it, Cas places his hands on Dean’s abdomen. Those hands follow an exploration path similar to Dean’s, and deep blue eyes track their progress.

Skin that used to be soft and pale has grown firmer and tanned since Dean’s escape from Hell. Cas is the reason he’s still alive, and Dean thinks about that whenever he sees where there should be scars, and his firm stomach, where Cas is now trailing fingers. He’s never been touched like this before, with such care, and doesn’t want it to stop. But when he notices Cas’ eyes dip to where he can feel an erection tenting his trousers, it’s time for a distraction.

Sure enough, Castiel’s eyes widen, and Dean can see just a touch of uncertainty. Yeah, Cas is getting ready to balk. Grabbing his hands, Dean places a kiss at the center of each palm, drawing the angel’s eyes back up.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, leaning down to place a kiss on the tip of Cas’ nose. “I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want,” lips graze the corners of Castiel’s mouth, “So let me…” A sudden lump rises in Dean’s throat. He kisses Cas deeply, unable to finish the words that echo in his thoughts.

 _Let me love you_.

Cas kisses back, matching his passion, and Dean continues his earlier mission. Now that he’s learned Cas’ reactions, he plays his body like an instrument. When Dean’s fingers finally graze the edge of Castiel’s trousers, there is no hesitation, and hips rise to meet his touch. Slowly, carefully, Dean undoes the ties, then rests his palm on Castiel’s hip, stroking the crest with his thumb.

When he hears a contented sigh from Cas while nibbling an earlobe, Dean trails kisses down Cas’ neck, tongue dipping into the hollow at the base of his throat. He continues down his chest, blowing a hot breath across one nipple, but not touching. It makes Cas’ breath hitch, and Dean grins as his tongue draws swirling patterns down his serratus muscles, to his obliques.

Cas has the body of a warrior, firm and strong. It’s taking all of Dean’s willpower to not use that to his advantage. He wants to use a firm grip, suck bruises, leave bite marks. Sighing across Cas’ navel, he takes a look at the crest of exposed hip. He holds back a groan at the sight of the prominent groove, and traces his tongue down the vee that leads to his groin. Castiel’s scent is strong here, and the musky depth of it nearly drives Dean mad.

 _Self control_ , a small voice in his head chides. Realizing his grip on Cas’ other hip has tightened, Dean takes a deep breath in through his mouth, and out through his nose, resting his forehead on Cas’ thigh. Fingers rake through his hair, and he looks up to see Cas looking at him with a worried expression.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, either.”

Oh, he wants to. And that’s the problem. He wants it too much. Sliding back up so they’re face-to-face, Dean gives Cas a quick peck on the lips, and huffs a soft laugh. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

Cas traces Dean’s jaw, drags the tip of a finger along the bow of Dean’s bottom lip. He follows the path with his eyes. “How would I know the difference?”

“It’s just, you back off when we get to a certain point with… touching.”

“I’m sorry, Dean. You know it’s been difficult for me to… resolve the connection between emotion and physical touch.” A furrow forms between Cas’ brows, and he looks away. “I’ve been— embarrassed.”

Before Dean can properly react to that, Cas leans close, lips inches away. “Will you show me,” he whispers.

Dean responds with a kiss, pulling Cas flush against him. Their erections slot next to each other, which elicits a gasp from Cas into Dean’s mouth. It would be so easy to lose control, but Dean pulls back, slides a hand between them. His knuckles graze Cas’ still-clothed length, and he watches as the angel’s eyes roll back, mouth forming a little ‘o’.

Pushing Cas’ loosened trousers past his hips, Dean traces his erection, cataloguing every movement, every hitch of breath. Soon Cas is undoing the fastening for Dean’s trousers as well, and tries to copy his movements. They lay on their sides facing each other, and Dean fondles and strokes, receiving unsure touches in return, which sets his blood ablaze. It isn’t long before Cas is getting close to losing it, and Dean pushes him flat onto his back.

“Let me do this for you,” he whispers, before sliding down between Castiel’s legs, trousers in a pile on the floor.

Before him is his prize, Castiel’s cock a firm ridge of flesh rising from a dark thatch of hair. His thumbs trace that vee that had nearly undone him earlier, and he leans down to release a hot breath across balls which are pulled up close. Cas cries out at the first brush of his tongue at the base of his cock, and Dean holds his hips still as he traces a wet line all the way to the tip.

With a swirl of his tongue, he takes the head into his mouth, and Cas bucks up, hands grasping Dean’s hair. Oh, the taste. The salty sweat, the bitter tang of precome, the indescribable taste of _Cas_. He releases one of Castiel’s hips to palm his own erection, and slides his lips down Cas’ length until he feels it touch the back of his soft palate. Suckling, he draws up to lap at the head again, before sliding back down in a smooth rhythm.

As the angel becomes a panting mess before him, Dean strokes himself, moaning around Cas’ cock, causing him to buck and shout. That’s it, just a little more. Letting Cas’ hips find their rhythm, he gently cups his balls, fingertips brushing his perineum.

Fingers digging into Dean’s scalp, Cas’ cock swells, his back arches as he lets out a choked cry, and then he’s coming with hot pulses that Dean greedily swallows. It’s transcendental, and after only a couple more pulls, Dean comes hard into his own hand as he laps up the last traces of Cas’ release, sparks behind his eyelids, and it feels like he’s being filled with light.

Panting into the crease of Cas’ hip, Dean comes to his senses with the sensation of something feathersoft grazing his back. He opens his eyes to to find himself surrounded by dark, downy feathers. Cas is gazing down at him dreamily, the fingers of one hand stroking his hair, the other arranging his wings to cover them both. Dean feels a moment of pride at the thought he made Cas come hard enough to involuntarily pop his wings.

Reaching out with the hand that isn’t sticky with come, he traces a primary feather up to where the alulas are fluffed out at the joint. Head a little fuzzy and ears ringing, Dean scoots up and rests his head on Cas’ chest, fingers tangled up in feathers. He lets out a sigh of contentment, and Cas hums in agreement, wings squeezing tighter in response.

* * *

Mmmnn... It should be hot under the canopy of Cas’ wings, but it’s just a solid, soft warmth. Dean doesn’t want to move. Maybe they can forget everything else, and just spend all their time just like this, naked, Cas’ wings out, holding each other. He honestly hadn’t planned on getting off as hard as he did, but hearing Cas make those sounds of pleasure… And damn, he’ll take Cas’ come as a perfectly reasonable substitute for blood, any day.

Cas’ feathers are doing this stroking thing up Dean’s back, and he wonders if it’s happening subconsciously, because the guy still looks pretty dazed. He’s tempted to ask, but that would mean talking, and he thinks they’re both enjoying this perfect moment in silence.

Unfortunately, reality comes crashing back down around them all too soon when an evil presence manifests outside. Dean can tell right away that it’s Abaddon out there. Cas’ wings tense up, and yup he felt it too. Now they have to get up and deal with this latest crisis. Why the fuck does the demon-bitch have to show up now?” Dean rolls off of Cas with a sigh. It’s not that he’s worried, because he’ll be damned if anything happens to Cas, but he just _finally_ got to have this. Besides, they’re warded up like crazy.

Cas is talking about armoring up, but Dean convinces him to wait. He looks out the window to see Abaddon standing a few yards from the door, alone. Not sensing anything else evil around, Dean pulls on some clothes and cracks open the door.

“What do you want?”

Coppery hair coiffed on her head, skin pale white, lips a bright red, Abaddon grins wide and toothy. “I knew I’d find you eventually. Why don’t you step out of that little hovel so we can talk?”

Oh no, he knows better than that. “I’m fine right here.”

She narrows her eyes. “I bet you are. Enjoying your angel?”

Wait, how does she know about that? Dean looks back inside, and Cas’ eyes are wide. Yeah, looks like he wasn’t expecting it either. “What do you want?”

She takes a step closer. “You know what I want. I’ve already taken over Hell. Give me the crown to make it all nice and official, and I might let you live.”

Hah. Dean knows she doesn’t have full control of Hell yet, thanks to Crowley. “How about no.”

Abaddon’s painted lips pull down into an ugly frown. “You stupid boy. Do you think any demons will follow you now? You’re only a shadow of what you once were.” She places a finger to her lips. “Although, I’m sure that angel you’re hiding in there has been sullied enough to join our ranks.” Wagging a finger at Dean, she says, “How do you think I finally found you? There have been rumors that you’d been spotted with an angel. And after whatever you just did,” she smirks. “It was like a homing beacon.”

Wait, what? Dean’s gotten himself off plenty of times, and she hasn’t caught up until now. After… Oh. Does that mean Cas hasn’t… not even to himself? Turning back to check on Cas, he can see the flush of his cheeks, and it’s all the answer he needs.

“I’m sorry,” Dean whispers, and Cas shakes his head, a small smile on his face.

“You know,” Abaddon continues, “I’ve always wanted an angel for a pet. After I kill you, maybe I’ll break it and keep it around to play with.”

Dean snarls, and the only thing that keeps him from stepping out the door is Cas’ hand on his arm. “You’ll _never_ get your hands on him!”

“Oh, _him_? Well that certainly explains some things.” Abaddon takes another step closer and simpers. “No matter how pumped full of an angel’s seed you get, you’ll always be Hell’s puppet. You’ll be forever tainted by Hell’s stain, never pure.”

She’s telling Dean something he already knows, and now he regrets ever trying to give Cas something even remotely pure. Cas gives his hand a squeeze, letting him know he’s still there. But then Abaddon says something that jerks his attention right back on her.

“I always knew Azazel should have taken your brother instead.”

“What?” Dean growls out the word between clenched teeth.

“It’s no surprise you are a failure as the Prince of Hell, it’s your sweet brother the crown was meant for. To properly raise Lucifer’s true vessel, you must take them as an infant.”

The shock of her words must be evident on Dean’s face, because Abaddon laughs. “You naϊve child. They never did tell you the true meaning of Ascension, did they?”

She’s lying, she has to be. “Why do you think you’ve been fed a steady diet of demon blood since your arrival in Hell? After enough time, your Ascension would have involved a blood feast, and then Lucifer would have taken you as his vessel, to be free to wander Hell and Earth. Do you really think he’d let you _share_?” Her derisive laughter rings out.

Of course, Dean knew the stories of how Lucifer built Hell supported by his angelic form, and thus remains trapped as part of the structure of Hell. While Lucifer reigns, there must be a physical ruler. However, he’d been led to believe that Ascension would be some kind of ceremony that linked him with Lucifer, not having his body worn like a cheap suit.

Abaddon wears a fake sympathetic frown. “But it was always supposed to be your baby brother, so you’d probably be blown apart trying to contain that much magnificence. So really, you’d be doing everyone a favor by giving up, giving me the crown so I can assume the throne as Queen.” She waves a hand in dismissal in his direction. “Then you can go back to sullying your angel, go run that pointless little kingdom you won.”

Oh, shit. She knows about that, too. “The only way I’m handing the crown to you is if I’m ramming it up your ass!”

“Ooh, kinky.” Abaddon pauses, body going rigid. “Well, this has been fun, but I have better places to be. She turns her back, and says over her shoulder, “You’ll only end up making him Fall, and he’ll always resent you for that.” She vanishes, her parting words ringing in his ears.

* * *

 

Castiel has never felt something so evil. Abaddon uses her words to poison Dean’s ears, make him doubt himself. And she uses just enough truth to twist the pain in deeper. Castiel may not know much about Hell or its rituals, but he doesn’t doubt that Abaddon believes what she’s telling Dean about Sam and Lucifer. Mix in some personal insults, and Castiel can already see the toll it’s taking on Dean.

She’s taken the beautiful moment they just shared, and twisted it into something Dean will regret. Just for that, Castiel wants to be the one to end her life. But they don’t get a moment to regroup.

Moments after Abaddon vanishes, angels swoop down from the sky and surround the hut, fully armored, blades drawn. Anael lands, and it’s obvious she’s their leader. Castiel knew he would have to speak with her, but he didn’t think it would be like this.

“Castiel?” she calls, and he gently pulls Dean aside to take his place in the doorway.

“I am here, and safe, sister.” He had put his wings away earlier to pull on a shirt, so he bows to her using a human standard of deference.

She steps forward, concern in her eyes. “I felt… something from you, and then there was a demonic presence. Castiel, what is happening?”

With a swallow, Castiel takes in the state of the hut’s interior. There are things that need to be put away, and the bed is in disarray. He can still smell the evidence of their shared moment earlier. There is no hiding anything from his sister any more.

“Anael, there’s someone you should meet. I only ask you come in alone.”

Anael sheathes her blade, and steps forward into the doorway. Wings vanish to make stepping inside easier. Her sharp senses take in the room, and he knows that she can tell what they’ve been doing, that she knows his sin. She takes in the sigils on the walls, and stills when she takes a good, hard look at Dean, who is standing uncomfortably to one side. It’s time to introduce them.

“Anael, I would like to introduce you to Dean, the Prince of Hell.”

Except for a slight widening of her eyes, she barely reacts. He almost wishes he could see her wings to help gauge her reaction.

“Dean, this is Anael, Colonel of the Heavenly Host, and my sister”

Dean blinks at her title, and shows false bravado with a cocky smile, bowing to her. “Nice to meet you.”

She merely nods before turning to Castiel, eyes searching. “Please brother, explain yourself.”

Castiel gestures for her to sit, and he takes the chair opposite. Dean realizes they’ve left a pot of water over the fire this whole time, and he levers it away from the flames. Anael sits stiffly in her chair, and Castiel wonders where to start. Noticing the wrapped parcel on the table, Castiel slides it over to her.

“I found you something.”

Anael unwraps it, and finds the small wooden angel inside. Her lips pull up in a small smile as she pulls the string to make the wings flap. But she soon sets it aside, and gives him a searching look. “Castiel, please tell me what’s going on.”

He starts at the beginning. Of the report of demons, how he found Dean about to drown, how he saved his life. Anael only gives away her response with a slight intake of breath or widening of eyes, but he knows she’s shocked. He mentions Dean’s side of the story, looking up at him occasionally for confirmation. Then there’s Sam, and Crowley, and some of their adventures. There is no mention of his own feelings, or their more amorous activities. He finishes by telling her of their encounter with Abaddon, and her desire to rule Hell.

Anael remains stoic, lips pursed. She looks over at Dean, and Castiel wonders what she’ll see. He knows what his soul looks like, but he’s seen what has happened to it over the past few weeks. He’s seen Dean be kind, and helpful, and loving. Worried, Castiel stares at his hands in his lap.

The silence is tense, and then suddenly Castiel gets a response from Anael, but not verbally. - _Castiel, surely you are mistaken. This man cannot be the prince of Hell_.

He blinks, completely taken aback. - _I can confirm that yes, he is the prince of Hell. Everything I have told you is truth. He’s a good man, sister. I have seen that first hand_.

Glancing up, Castiel can see Anael’s eyes have turned back to him, and they seem to be searching for something. - _May I have permission to search your memories? Perhaps that will help_.

Normally he wouldn’t even hesitate, but… he doesn’t want to be judged by his sister for things he’s done. Anael’s eyes grow hard, but Castiel reaches out for her hand. - _Please, sister. It’s not what you think. I have done things… I am not ashamed, but am afraid of how you will judge me afterwards_.

Anael ‘s eyes soften, and she places her other hand over his. - _You love him, don’t you?_

Castiel closes his eyes, throat tight with emotion. He does, more than anything. With a nod, he can feel his fate lock into place. There’s no going back now.

Anael shifts, and he hears her speak. “Dean, I have asked Castiel permission to look into his memories. If he accepts, I will review everything that has occurred between you since your first meeting. Do you have any objections?”

Castiel opens his eyes, and looks at Dean. He seems unsure.

“Will it hurt him?” Dean says softly.

“Only if he tries to deceive.”

With a sigh, Dean locks eyes with Castiel. “Then I’ve got nothing to hide. Hell, do it to me, too.”

There’s a small smile on Anael’s face when she turns back to face Castiel. “That will not be necessary.”

- _Do you consent to my observation?_

Castiel lets out a shaky breath and nods. As Anael lifts her hands to place on his head, he glances once more at Dean, gathering strength from the sight before he closes his eyes. - _I consent_.

He can feel Anael’s Grace flow through him, and it’s comforting. She spends a moment locating the appropriate memories, and as she reviews them, Castiel feels laid bare. Every reaction, every secret thought and feeling is on display as she filters through everything. It takes very little time but feels like forever. Finally, Anael pulls away after reaching the memory of angels surrounding the hut. With one last soothing surge, she retreats her Grace, and wipes thumbs below his eyes. It’s only then that he realizes he’s been crying.

Anael stands, coming over to wrap him in her arms, soothing fingers in his hair. “Shh, it’s alright my sweet brother.”

A short distance away, Castiel can feel Dean’s tension and worry. Eyes still closed, he reaches out, and Dean rushes over, hand wrapping around his. “I am unharmed, Dean,” he manages to grate out. “The experience was just a bit overwhelming.”

Dean’s fingers squeeze, then he asks, “You’re not going to punish him, are you?”

With one last sweep of fingers through his hair, Anael pulls away and faces Dean. “That isn’t my decision to make. However,” She tilts Castiel’s face up, fingertips a light pressure under his chin. “I may be able to use this to help with your current efforts in defeating this demon Abaddon.”

She asks Dean questions about Hell’s demons, what he knows of Abaddon, and makes him recite the prophecy as completely as he can. “And you’re sure this Crowley is committed to helping your side?”

“If he was going to betray me, he’d have done it by now.” Dean frowns, and Castiel knows he’s thinking about how he was intended to be used as Lucifer’s vessel.

Hands folded in her lap, Anael says, “Castiel, I may be able to salvage this situation. We can say you intended to destabilize Hell’s infrastructure by feeding Dean your blood. Dean, the next time you hear from Crowley, I need to know. This Abaddon is truly a threat, and she must be stopped. We may have something that can help.”

With that, she stands up, and holds her hand out to Castiel. “Come, walk with me outside.”

Afraid that he is to be taken to Heaven for punishment, Castiel remains seated, eyes flicking between her and Dean in fear. She picks up on that and says, “I just wish to say goodbye before I leave.”

Outside, Anael flares her wings wide, and wraps Castiel in them. “Savor these moments while you can, brother.” There’s sadness in her words, and they both understand her meaning.

She pulls away, tips of her wings caressing Castiel’s face. With one command, she flaps and vanishes, the contingent of angels leaving with her. The last one to leave is Samandriel, and he tilts his wings in a small salute as he looks at Castiel with worry etched on his face.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another explicit chapter.

Dean watches all the other angels leave and sighs in relief when Cas is left standing. He could see the fear in Cas’ eyes, and Dean can admit he was also afraid they’d take Cas with them. But now Cas is coming back, and as soon as he’s through the door, Dean wraps him in his arms.

“That was intense,” Dean huffs into Cas’ shoulder.

Cas hums in agreement, squeezing Dean tightly before pulling back, hands on his shoulders. “We can’t afford to waste time. Summon Crowley, I will fetch Sam. It’s important we keep your brother safe.”

Yeah, he’s got a point there. Abaddon’s words about how Sam was supposed to be Lucifer’s vessel spin in his head. Dean needs to have a nice chat with Crowley about hiding the true meaning of Ascension from him all this time.

“Take your time, Cas. Crowley has some explaining to do.”

They share a look before Cas squeezes his shoulder and steps back outside. The moment Cas unleashes his angelic power, bottled up for so long, Dean feels it wash over like a wave. Huge, indigo-black feathers erupt from the angel’s shoulders before he flaps a couple times and vanishes.

After a brief prayer sent Cas’ way to keep his brother safe, Dean prepares to summon Crowley directly to the grounds outside the hut. No more hiding, all cards on the table. The game is on.

Circle drawn, bowlful of herbs prepared, Dean chants the spell and lights the herbs ablaze. He counts his heartbeats until Crowley appears in a haze of ruddy smoke. “Dean! Have you lost your bloody mind? Why did you—”

Dean’s knuckles to Crowley’s face make a satisfactory thud-crunch sound, and he savors the flare of pain in his hand almost as much as the shock on the demon’s face as he falls on his ass. “Were you ever going to tell me I was being raised as Lucifer’s flesh-puppet?”

Crowley pauses, still sitting on the ground, fingers pinching his nose. “Abaddon found you, didn’t she.”

Grinding his teeth, Dean paces outside the summoning circle. “You raised me. I trusted you. And I had to learn the truth from the bitch who wants me dead?”

Dusting himself off, Crowley stands up in the center of the circle, as poised as always. “Tell me, Dean. If all Lucifer needed was someone to wear to the dance, why would I bother to teach you about running and governing Hell?”

That takes a little of the fire out of Dean’s rage, but he continues to glare at Crowley.

“Abaddon, as usual, has twisted the truth to her own benefit.” Crowley adjusts his cuffs. “I did not lie to you when I said you would be linked with Lucifer. Yes, he will possess your body. But he also needs your mind, intact and full of all the knowledge I have imparted.”

Crowley steps to the edge of the circle, and looks up at Dean, hands behind his back. “I will admit, I wasn’t thrilled with being responsible for raising a human whelp to one day transform into Hell’s new ruler. But, in spite of how exasperating you can be, I’ve grown… fond of you.”

Dean huffs out a small laugh. “I’ve been a pain in your ass.”

Humming in response, Crowley places his finger along the side of his nose. “I raised a son of my own when I was human, you know.” A small smile graces his face. “I am more proud of you than I ever was of my own child.”

Sensing the truth and pride in Crowley’s words, Dean unclenches his fists and takes a breath. Thinking back to everything that Crowley has done for him, Dean can’t help but feel fond for his demonic excuse for a father figure as well. With a sweep of his foot he breaks the circle, granting Crowley the freedom to step out of it.

Holding his hand out, Dean says, “Let's find a way to get rid of the Hell-bitch for good.”

* * *

When Cas returns with an anxious Sam, Dean and Crowley are sitting at the table, discussing strategy. Dean relaxes at the sight of his brother and his angel safely crossing the threshold. Sam stops and stares between Dean and Crowley, then glances back at Cas.

“What’s going on? Cas wouldn’t say much except I needed to come here for my own safety.”

“Sit down, kiddo,” Dean says, waving at the bed. “This is going to take a while.”

He fills Sam in on what’s happening with Abaddon, and that the angels are willing to help. “That reminds me, Cas. Wait to get in touch with your sister until you hear what Crowley just told me.”

Dean turns to Crowley, palm out. “You care to explain?”

“I have located the one being other than Lucifer who might help us defeat Abaddon.” Crowley pauses for dramatic effect. “We need to find Cain.”

Sam doesn’t get it right away, but Cas’ eyes widen. “Cain.”

“Yes,” Crowley smirks.

“As in the eldest son of Adam and Eve.” Cas’ lips pull into a thin line.

“The Father of Murder himself,” Crowley replies.

Sam finally finds his voice. “How do we go about finding Cain?”

Crowley turns to Dean. “You want to fill them in?”

Yeah, this isn’t going to be fun. “So, it turns out that there’s something the archangels have that can help us locate him.” Turning to Cas, Dean lets out a sigh. This is just going to make his standing with the other angels worse, he just knows it. “We need the First Blade.”

Cas stands completely still. Yeah, Dean knew this wasn’t going to go over well. It’s Sam who pipes in with, “Wait, we need to ask the _angels_ to give us the weapon that the first son of Adam used to kill his _own brother_?”

“But wait, there’s more!” Crowley says with enthusiasm.

Dean slowly turns his head to stare at him. He’ll never get over the demon’s desire to be just a little dramatic. “Why don’t you tell them the rest, then?”

He’s so done with today. What’s a guy gotta do in order to just go back to when he was wrapped up in Cas’ wings? Rolling his head and feeling his neck pop, Dean leans back in his chair and lets Crowley finish.

Apparently unable to do this sitting down, Crowley gets up and stands by the fire, his face thrown in shadow. “The blade will allow us to locate Cain, but it is also the only weapon that can destroy an original Knight of Hell such as Abaddon.”

“But if the First Blade can kill Abaddon, why do we need Cain?” Sam asks.

It’s Cas who answers this one. ”Because there is only one person who has the power to use the blade as such a weapon.”

“Oh, very good, featherduster.” Crowley seems to enjoy getting under Cas’ skin, and he gloats over Cas’ glower.

“Get on with it, Crowley,” Dean tries to break the tension. “We’ve got too much to do without you trying to make a whole story of it.”

With a sigh, Crowley resumes. “The weapon gains its power from the cursed mark Cain was given by God. Without it, the First Blade is just an ancient relic.”

“I can’t do this,” Cas says. “There is no way the archangels will allow such a weapon to fall back into Cain’s hands. The sheer amount of destruction of which he is capable…”

Dean latches onto Cas’ arm, hoping to calm him a little. Maybe there’s another way. “Can’t we just find a way to push my Ascension forward, just have Lucifer take me over, so he can put Abaddon back in her place?”

Cas whips his head around to stare at Dean in disbelief. But before he can say anything, Crowley dismisses the idea. “It’s too late, you’ve fraternized a bit too closely with your angel, here. The amount of demon blood you’d have to consume…” Crowley looks directly at Cas. “Thanks for undoing over twenty years of hard work, by the way.”

There’s a throbbing developing in Dean’s temples, and he closes his eyes. This is a great big fucking mess. With a sigh, he opens his eyes and looks at Cas. “Could you at least ask if it’s possible, Cas?” He hates even asking, but it’s the only solution they’ve got.

Placing his hand over Dean’s where he still has a grip on the angel’s arm, Cas searches Dean’s eyes for a moment before letting out a slow breath. “Let me speak with Anael.”

Giving Dean’s hand a squeeze, he slips from his grasp and stalks to the door. With one last look at everyone, he steps outside and flaps off. God, Dean hopes this works. They stand around in the suddenly quiet hut for a while, before Dean’s stomach gives him a loud reminder he hasn’t eaten in a while.

* * *

There isn’t much to eat except some dried travel food, so Crowley is gracious enough to use his demon magic to summon some food. He also manages to pop into existence some of his favorite scotch, which he shares with Dean. Sam is hesitant to try any of the food at first, but after he sees Dean dig in without hesitation, he gives up.

After their meal, it’s starting to get dark outside, and Dean can’t help but worry. Sam’s fidgeting over by the fire, sorting through some dried herbs that were left behind. Crowley sits back and enjoys his scotch in silence, and Dean tries to occupy himself with his cards, the whole time wondering if Heaven will even let Cas return, let alone if the angels will even let them _look_ at the First Blade.

As the time slips past and it grows later and later without word from Cas, Dean becomes increasingly convinced he’ll never get to see the angel again. All he has as reminders are the clothes Cas left behind. The feather he pocketed what feels like forever ago got lost during that fight with the orcs.

Just before it feels like Dean’s about to snap, the presence of not one but three angels manifests. With a sigh of relief, he gets up and opens the door to see Cas flanked by Anael, and another angel he doesn’t recognize on sight. He’s almost as tall as Crowley, which isn’t saying much, and his golden-brown hair is brushed back from his forehead. Amber eyes twinkle with what Dean would normally call mischief in anything other than an angel, and he has a leather-bound parcel tucked under his arm.

The amber-eyed angel reaches out and grasps Dean’s hand. “So you’re the tall drink that Castiel's risking everything for? Nice to meetcha. Name’s Gabriel.” He leans over to get a peek inside, and spots Crowley. “Ooh, is that scotch?” Unceremoniously pushing Dean aside, he lets himself in. Wait, isn’t Gabriel an Archangel?

Blinking at the absurdity of it all, Dean stares as Gabriel makes himself at home, both pissing off Crowley as he takes his scotch, and flustering Sam as he makes a remark about his incredible height. Dean turns back to the doorway where Anael stands to one side, looking at Cas. She says that she’s just here as an escort, and steps aside after giving Cas’ shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Once things settle down, Gabriel makes a show of holding out the leather parcel. It’s smooth and worn, with strange etchings in a language Dean doesn’t recognize. There’s a thong holding it all together, and Gabriel takes his damn time unwrapping the thing. Finally, he opens the leather to reveal… a rudimentary knife made with some kind of animal’s jawbone, teeth included. The thing doesn’t even look sharpened.

Everyone just blinks at the item in Gabriel’s hands. “Hellooo, this is what you wanted! The First Blade?” When nobody responds, he wraps it back up again. “And these are the people who are going to convince Cain to take care of their demon problem? Pshhh.”

Cas is the first one to break his silence. Kneeling before the Archangel, he says, “Thank you so much for agreeing to assist us, Gabriel.”

Gabriel pats him on the shoulder. “No need for all the formalities. I accept payment in the form of human sweets. Make sure you bring plenty on your way back upstairs. You hear?” Cas nods, mute.

“You have good scotch, so I’ll ignore the demon in the room,” Gabriel points at Crowley, who scowls.

“And you.” The strange angel turns to Sam, pats his chest and smiles. “I like you.”

Whirling to face Dean, Gabriel gives him this strange toothless grin. “If I hear you’re mistreating li’l ol’ Castiel over there… Well, let’s just say I don’t need to use physical pain to dole out my punishments.”

As abruptly as he came in, Gabriel steps right out again. Like an afterthought, he sticks his head back inside. “Oh, and when you’re ready to give that back, just give Anael here a yell. And you _better_ give it back.” With that, he’s out the door and gone, taking Cas’ sister with him.

Well. That was… weird. They stand around, staring at the innocuous-looking leather package that just happens to hold one of the most deadly weapons in existence. Even though it’s nothing but a piece of ancient bone right now.

It’s Sam who breaks the tension with a yawn. “So… I don’t know about you, but I’m human and if we’re going to be searching for Cain, I’d prefer to do it after getting some sleep.”

Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Until Dean realizes that it means sharing with his brother. And neither Crowley nor Cas require sleep. He wonders if they can all occupy the same small space overnight without one trying to kill the other. But Crowley says he has somewhere he can hole up for the night, and after seeing the look on Dean’s face, he produces an extra cot out of thin air.

Pulling Dean close, he whispers, “I don’t know what you see in that angel, but you deserve a little bit of happiness before we all risk our necks, right?”

With a burst of affection, Dean gives him a quick hug. “You’re not so bad for an old demon.”

“Shut your mouth. I have a reputation to uphold.” Crowley heads toward the door. “Good night kiddies. Our adventure begins at dawn.”

Sam looks down at the cot, then back up at Dean. “Just don’t do anything… gross while I’m sleeping practically next to you.”

“I would never—”

Sam gives him a flat look.

“Okay, it was one time, and I apologized after.” And besides, Cas means more to him than that.

They get settled in, Sam stretched out on the cot, Dean on the narrow bed with Cas tucked in next to the wall. He says he’s perfectly fine with staying that way until morning, and Dean throws an arm over him, nuzzles his ear before settling down. With everything happening, he’s not expecting to fall asleep any time soon. But with Cas right here, a warm, comforting presence, Dean drifts off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

Crowley shows up outside the hut just past sunrise. He didn’t take any chances with Abaddon finding him, and had prepared a hiding place of his own warded so thickly it’s almost a struggle to get through the door himself. He also makes sure he has a hellhound with him at all times. The day promises to be bright and clear, and he wants to get going. Not caring if anyone might still be sleeping, he bangs on the door.

It’s the tall one, Sam, who answers, his long hair sticking up at all angles. He turns to look at Dean, still in bed and wrapped around the angel. Dean waves an arm, telling them to give him just a little longer. That’s the petulant prince he’s raised.

Leaving the hellhound outside, Crowley bypasses Sam and enters the hut. He knows how to handle Dean. “Now now, we all need to get moving before Abaddon has any ideas about disposing of you before we find Cain.”

Dean grumbles and presses his face into the pillow. “Or,” Crowley leans on the doorframe. “I can have the hellhound that’s just outside drag you out of bed.”

“Cas, smite him.”

The angel looks at Crowley and says, “I don’t think that is a wise choice, Dean. We still need him to find Cain.”

“Fine, fine.” Dean rolls over and rubs his hands over his face. With a grunt, he sits up and squints at his brother and Crowley. “Someone going to make me breakfast, at least?”

Once he’s finally able to get Dean vertical, it doesn’t take long before they’re ready to be on their way. Crowley asks for the First Blade, and the angel is reluctant handing it over. “Do you want to kill Abaddon or not?”

Outside, under the watchful eyes of both his hellhound and the angel, Crowley constructs the spell that will locate Cain. With a carefully pronounced incantation, he holds the leather-wrapped handle of the blade and waits for it to show him the proper direction. As soon as he knows at least which way to start looking, he tells them they’re going to use short hops of instant transport to make their way.

As expected, the angel refuses to have Crowley transport him. Yet Dean seems reluctant to use angelic flight. “No offense Cas. But last time I thought I was gonna crap my pants.” They organize it so that Crowley will take Dean, and then the angel will home in on Dean’s location, bringing Sam along.

They head out in a northwest direction, and Crowley is surprised after their first two jumps when he realizes they’ve already overshot their mark. As he narrows down the location, the angel says, “Isn’t this close to the town where we killed the lamia?” Crowley honestly doesn’t care, and continues homing in on their target.

They land just outside a modest farmstead, split rails marking the edge of the property. There’s a wooden, whitewashed house, and Crowley points to it. “Here we are, gentlemen. This is the abode of Cain, retired Father of Murder.”

After wrapping the First Blade back up in its leather wrappings, they start toward the house. Crowley holds back at the rear of the group. Yes, he can sense it now. Cain has hidden himself well, but now that he knows what to look for, Crowley can feel the thrum of the curse. He hopes Cain isn’t too upset that they’ve invited themselves over unannounced.

As they approach the house, a man wearing a wide-brimmed hat draped in netting rounds the corner, a smoking pot in his hands. Crowley is unaccustomed to fear. As the advisor to the Prince of Hell, there is little to be afraid of. But at the sight of this man, Cain, he is terrified. He stands stock still, and it takes his companions a moment to realize it, as they’re focused on their approaching death. The angel is the next one to finally pick up on the vibe, as he settles into a defensive posture.

Cain casually stops by the front door of the house, setting down the smoking pot. Then, he removes his netted hat, revealing wavy dark hair, shot through liberally with streaks of grey. His full beard does little to soften his imposing presence as he pins them all in place with his icy blue stare.

“Well, isn’t this a motley group that has assembled before me this day.” Cain’s eyes take in each of them in turn, and Crowley clenches his fists to avoid trembling under that gaze. After sizing them up, Cain removes his gloves.

“Don’t just stand there, come on in.”

One by one they enter Cain’s home, and the moment he crosses the threshold, Crowley is sure this will be the last place he ever sees. After inviting them to make themselves comfortable in what appears to be a sitting room, Cain passes through a door, leaving them to their own devices. The rich woods paneling, the handcrafter furniture, and the soft cushions should be comforting, but it’s all Crowley can do to avoid whimpering when Dean asks him what’s going on.

“Everything’s fine,” he croaks. “Let’s all take a seat and await our host’s return.” Grabbing Dean by the sleeve, he hisses, “And don’t say anything to piss him off!”

Cain returns with a tray, carrying a steaming teapot and mugs. He pours each of them some tea, and hands out the mugs. Crowley has to quickly set his down to avoid spilling due to his hands shaking so badly.

“I see you have something of mine.” Cain’s eyes lock on to where the wrapped blade sits in the angel’s lap.

No one’s sure who should speak first, and finally Dean’s the one who says, “Hate to bother you sir, but we have a problem and were hoping you would be able to assist us in taking care of it.”

Underneath his fear, Crowley feels a surge of pride that Dean has finally learned diplomacy.

“I know who you are, and what you want of me. Question is, _why_ should I help you?”

This time, it’s the angel who unsticks his tongue. “Cain, if you are aware of our purpose, then how can you question why?”

With a sigh, Cain leans back against the cushion of his chair. “When you’ve been around as long as I have, you see a great many things. I’m just not sure this is worth my time.”

“My apologies, um, sir,” Sam says, “But Abaddon wants to take over Hell.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, _‘and’_?” sputters Dean. Oh well so much for diplomacy.

“You’ve been raised to become Lucifer’s vessel.” Cain flicks his eyes up and down Dean. “Although you’re useless to him now. Let’s say I kill Abaddon. Do you actually plan on taking over the throne again? Maybe take your angel down there with you?” He turns to said angel, appraising him. “It would be interesting to see something new in Hell for a change, but I doubt that’s your desire.”

Cain continues. “No, if I take care of your little knight problem, what’s to keep it from happening again? I’ve worked hard to stay out of such matters, and I don’t appreciate being dragged back into them.” He stands up, going to the front door and opening it. “Now if you don’t mind, I have bees to tend, chores to complete.”

* * *

 

Dean stands up, disappointment and anger bubbling through him. This was their one chance. As the others make their way to the door, Dean gets up in Cain’s face. It’s not like he has much else to lose at this point.

“Fine. You don’t want to get involved. I get that. But Abaddon is planning on ruling Hell, destroying Heaven, and who knows what he has in store for Earth. You may be fine with just sitting back and letting all that happen, but I’m not.” He takes a breath, locking eyes with Cain before plunging forward. “You don’t have to get personally involved, just tell me how I can kill Abaddon.”

Cain rocks back on his heels, raising an eyebrow. Stroking his beard, he barks out a laugh. “I like you.” He glances out the door. “Tell you what, take care of these other unwanted guests, and I’ll consider telling you.”

Dean turns to see a group of maybe twenty demons gathered just past the fence. He turns back to Cain, who gives him a one-shouldered shrug, and nonchalantly steps into another room. Glancing around, Dean sees Cas already has his angel blade out, and Crowley gives him a nod. Together, they step out into the yard, and the demons attack.

It’s a fierce battle, and one that it takes all of them working together to win. Sam starts to chant a banishment spell, but Dean has to stop him because that will take out Crowley, too. After noticing some of the faces they’re fighting look familiar, Cas points out they’re possessed villagers. Dammit, these are the same people they helped not that long ago. This makes things difficult.

After a tough battle, they have fifteen demons subdued, trapped in a circle. Unfortunately, there were some casualties, especially when he saw one come up behind Sam. Crowley wants to just kill them all, but Dean refuses. These people have lives, families, homes. While Crowley’s telling him the angel’s made him soft, Cas steps closer to the circle.

“Well hey there, handsome. Fancy meeting you here.” A petite brunette with a round face comes forward.

“Meg?” Cas seems taken aback.

“Mmmm. This bag of flesh really had a thing for you when you stepped through town. Almost makes me wonder what it would be like to ride an angel.”

Dean feels a flare of anger, touched by the jealousy he’d felt that day when Meg had flirted with Cas. But he tries to remember, it’s just a demon trying to get to them.

“Begone foul demon, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Fry me out with your smiting powers? Too bad that will mean killing the poor soul inside.”

Dean’s had enough, and he pulls Cas away from the circle. “Stop it, Cas she’s doing it on purpose.”

He turns them away, but she gives one more parting shot. “You never know, maybe she’s already dead. Which do you think is worse, hmm?”

“Crowley,” Dean barks. “Go somewhere… not here. Give us about half an hour.”

Crowley waggles his fingers at the group of demons. “Ta-ta, darlings.”

As soon as he vanishes, Dean tells Sam to do the banishing spell. When it’s all finished, only half of the villagers survive the encounter. He convinces Cas to do some memory altering to help them survive the traumatic experience. After they’re sent on their way, Dean looks over the corpses of the victims. Time to set up a pyre.

When Dean turns around, Cain’s standing next to him, gazing sadly ad the scattered corpses. “That one was my honey buyer. Made the best mead, too.” Cain snaps his fingers, and the bodies instantly incinerate.

“We took care of them, so tell me how to kill Abaddon,” Dean demands.

Cain purses his lips, considering. “The only way to defeat a Knight of Hell is with the First Blade. The only one who can give the blade power is the one who bears this curse mark.” He pushes back his right sleeve, revealing a raised red mark on his forearm. “If you are willing to take on this mark, you could wield the blade and defeat Abaddon.”

Sam calls out, “Dean, no!”

And Cas is immediately by his side, telling him he can’t, that he’ll carry the same infernal punishment that Cain has. But Dean can’t think of any other way this can go. Giving Cas’ hand a squeeze, he turns back to Cain.

“Do it.”

Cain holds out his right hand, palm up. Dean reaches forward, and Cain grasps his arm just below the elbow, and Dean does the same. He waits for something, maybe an itch, a flash of light, pain, anything. But Cain just gives this look of approval. Next thing he knows, Dean’s being pulled into a one-armed hug, Cain laughing in his ear.

“You definitely have a lot of spunk, kid.” Cain pulls back, revealing that the mark is still on his arm. “And either really brave, or stupid.”

What the hell? Cas sags in relief next to Dean, and Sam looks on, confused. Crowley’s not back yet, and Dean stares at Cain. “Is this all some big joke to you, asshole?”

Cain smirks. “I’m starting to lean more towards stupid. It was a test, and you passed. I’ve a score to settle with Abaddon anyway, so I will help you defeat her. Come, stay the night.”

* * *

 

Castiel, after finding Dean, had considered saving and healing him the most bizarre experience of his existence. But sharing a meal with Sam, a demon, the Prince of Hell, and Cain most definitely tops that. The meal ends with a sticky pastry made with honey, and Castiel considers asking if he can request a batch for Gabriel.

Afterwards, Cain offers up the use of his home, offering them all rooms to sleep. He not quite so subtly suggests Dean and Castiel take the room farthest from the rest, giving them a wink that makes them both blush. But it reminds Castiel of what he is allowed to have now.

As soon as they’re inside the room, door closed firmly, Castiel presses close to Dean and kisses him. He still tastes like honey, and Castiel explores Dean’s mouth with his tongue, chasing the remnants of flavor. Dean lets out a low sound, wrapping his arms around Castiel, pulling him closer. Unleashing the passion he feels for this amazing man, Castiel presses forward, pushing Dean up against a wall, tugging at the hem of his shirt to get his hands on Dean’s skin.

Flush with desire, Dean digs his fingers into Castiel’s back, opening his mouth for a deeper kiss, and presses their hips together. The sensation of feeling them rub together so intimately, even through clothing, it is like lightning licking underneath Castiel’s skin, stoking the flame in his belly. He wants in a way he’s never felt before Dean, and tonight he will _have_.

Rucking up Dean’s shirt, Castiel pulls away only long enough to remove it, then presses back in, devouring Dean’s mouth. Everything he is focuses on Dean, his touch, his scent, his taste. He reaches out with his Grace, brushing up against Dean’s soul, making them both gasp. It is everything, yet still not enough. This desire, it makes him ache for something he cannot name. All he knows is what Dean has done to him. Panting, Castiel trails sloppy kisses down Dean’s chest, fingers fumbling at the ties of his trousers.

Hands pull his head back, and Dean looks at him with worried eyes. “Hey, it’s okay, you can slow down.”

Letting out a shaky breath, Castiel sits back on his heels, staring up at this beautiful man glowing in the light of a lantern. He finds himself at a loss for words. “I want… You are... “ He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I want so badly to please you. There’s this aching need, and I am lost.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and as he gazes upon Castiel it feels like a blessing. “Hey.” Reaching for Castiel, he pulls him up and they stand there, face to face, breathing each other in. “I’ve got you.”

With a soft kiss, Dean leads him to the bed. “Get undressed, I’ll be right back.” One more quick peck of the lips, and he slips out the door.

Trusting Dean, Castiel strips down completely and sits upon the edge of the bed, his cock a heavy weight against his thigh. It doesn’t take long until Dean slips back in, a small earthenware cruet and a cloth held in one hand. He places it on a small table within reach of the bed, and takes in Castiel’s naked form. Groaning, Dean makes quick work of his own trousers’ ties, as well as his underwear.

Oh, but Dean is beautiful like this. There’s a line at his waist where certain skin has never seen the sun, and Castiel traces that line with hs fingertips. His cock hangs thick between his legs, and Castiel trails down, ghosting the pads of his fingers along the flesh, feeling it jump at his touch. Before he can get further, Dean takes his hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “You do much more of that, and this’ll be over way too quickly.”

Dean lays Castiel down, situating him towards the middle of the bed, and he straddles his thighs. Castiel’s hands in his, Dean presses them to his chest. “Feel free to touch anywhere else.”

He leans forward, and gives Castiel a searing kiss. Soon the room is warm from their body heat, and Castiel is exploring Dean’s body with his hands. Every plane of muscle, ridge of bone, wisp of hair is memorized, and Castiel is swept away in sensation. Dean’s hips rock forward, and their cocks slide next to each other, causing Castiel to cry out into Dean’s mouth. He receives a groan in reply, and Dean reaches for the cruet.

Sitting up, Dean pours a small amount of oil into his hand. Curious, Castiel asks, “What are you doing?”

Dean cocks his head to the side with a sly smile, and reaches behind himself. “You’ve never had… actual… sex, right?”

Castiel is distracted by what Dean’s hand might be doing, but he responds, ‘While I may not have ever participated, I do know the mechanics behind the act.”

Dean shifts, rubbing their cocks together again, distracting Castiel. “Okay then, how do two men have sex?”

Castiel blinks, looks down at their cocks, then back up at Dean’s face. “There was what you did—”

“Yeah, that’s a kind of sex,” Dean says with a chuffing laugh, “But there are other ways.”

Castiel watches Dean’s arm, where he’s doing something with that oil-coated hand, and watches the muscles flex. “Dean, what are you doing?”

Biting his lip, Dean leans forward on one arm, rubbing their noses together. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?” he whispers before capturing his mouth, and grinding his hips down.

Castiel loses himself to the sensation before he remembers Dean had challenged him. Tracing Dean’s arm down to his hand, he touches where Dean has two fingers pressed inside of himself. Confused, Castiel traces the edge of Dean’s oiled, stretched hole, causing him to moan. But that’s… Why would he..? _Oh_.

Letting out a stuttering breath, Castiel traces his oily rim again, pressing firmer. Dean’s breath catches, and he presses his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder. “Yeah, you got the idea.”

Fascinated, Castiel grabs the cruet and pours some more oil into his hand. Reaching around, he teases Dean’s opening some more, spreading and warming the oil. Dean’s hips rock, and Castiel slips the tip of one finger into the tight space, right next to Dean’s.

“Oh, fuck Cas!”

Dean’s hips rock against him again, and Castiel focuses on the rubbing of their cocks, and the feeling of his finger slipping next to Dean’s, stretching him open. He’s panting against Dean’s neck, awash in sensation, when Dean pulls back, grabbing Castiel’s hand, and the towel. “That’s enough of that.”

He strokes Castiel's cock a couple times with his oily hand, slicking it up and making Castiel’s hips rise off the bed. “I’ve got you.” After helping wipe the oil from Castiel’s hand, Dean rises up on his knees, hands on Castiel’s abdomen. “You gotta promise to hold still for me, alright?”

Nodding, Castiel watches Dean settle himself over his cock, reach down to hold it steady, and begin to press down. Ohh, if he had thought the feel of Dean’s mouth was amazing, it’s nothing like the tight squeeze as Dean lowers his hips, pressing Castiel deeper inside himself. By the time Dean’s finally seated on his lap, fully impaled, Castiel is shaking with the effort to not move, to not… explode from the sensation.

As Dean sits upon him, Castiel thinks about how this is more than just carnal pleasure. This is… almost sacred, as he feels they are now joined in a way he never thought possible. Once again reaching out with his Grace, he brushes up against Dean’s soul. Dean clenches around him, and Castiel cries out.

After a couple panting breaths, Dean says, “Maybe you shouldn’t try that again just yet.”

Leaning forward, Dean settles on his elbows, gazing down at Castiel. They kiss, and Dean rotates his hips, causing Castiel to buck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles against Dean’s lips.

It’s slow, beautiful torture, feeling Dean move atop him, feeling himself pressed inside that tight heat. Moans escape Castiel’s throat, and he doesn’t know where to put his hands. He clings to Dean’s back, feeling him move, Dean’s own pleasured noises being whispered across his lips, down the length of his throat. His breath is hot, and it takes all of Castiel’s willpower to not rock his hips.

As if sensing his distress, Dean murmurs into the hollow of his throat, “You can move now.”

All he can manage is short thrusts, rocking his hips up, pressing himself deeper inside. It’s all too much, and there are stars bursting behind his eyelids. Then Dean rises up slowly, until just the head is seated inside. With one swift moment, he’s pressed flush with Castiel again, and it feels like insanity. Crying out, Castiel speeds up the rhythm of his hips, Dean a counterpoint above him as they slide together.

He clings to Dean’s back, feeling that delicious pressure within himself build and build. On one particular thrust, Dean growls and bites his neck. He hits the same spot again, and  Dean bites harder, breaking skin. The smell of his own blood is a sharp tang in his nose, and Dean latches on, lapping away at the wound, his own movements becoming erratic. Something happens between them, and Castiel can feel Dean’s desperation, his hunger.

Becoming lost to it all, Castiel flips them over so Dean is on his back, and releases his wings. They stretch out behind him as he pounds into Dean again and again, the tension building. Dean latches on, legs wrapping tight around his hips, hands grasping at his feathers. With Castiel taking the lead, they perform the oldest dance, moves coordinated and in sync as they chase mutual satisfaction.

Strung tight like a bow, Castiel feels it coming, more powerful than before, but it’s here. With a shout, he presses deep, spilling inside of Dean. Castiel is suffused with a a light, a joy, something so powerful it could probably create new universes.

Hips stuttering and wings spasming, he feels Dean tighten around his shaft, and then Dean is spilling between them, white hot spurts that have him finally detaching from Castiel's neck to cry out his name. Breathing heavily, Castiel stays pressed deep, as they both come down from the high of ogasm that felt like so much more.

As he begins to soften inside of Dean, wings now curled up at his sides, their breathing becomes less labored. Something occurs to Castiel as they lie there with their bodies cooling. He knew it was happening before, but had tried to slow its process. He has now fully bonded to Dean. For the rest of his existence, he will never seek another. Before, this was something Castiel had never given much care or thought. But now, the thought of losing Dean, of being separated, it fills him with anxiety.

His agitation must be noticed by Dean, because he mumbles something about a towel. Pushing down his own unease, Castiel hunts for the cloth Dean brought with the oil, and finds it wedged halfway under Dean. The effort has him slip from Dean, and Castiel feels the loss, while Dean groans, swiping at his chest and stomach before jamming the cloth between his legs. Mumbling something about drying liquids, Dean shifts to one side and pulls Castiel down next to him.

As before, Castiel spreads his wings to cover them, and Dean reaches out, grasping a handful of feathers. He watches as Dean falls into a satisfied slumber, watching him sleep long into the night. Before dawn, Castiel rises carefully, as to not wake Dean. Noticing a loose feather on the bed, he has an idea.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean blinks awake, the early morning light staining everything blue. His muscles ache in a good way, and he stretches out, remembering exactly what they had done last night. It was quite possibly the hottest damn sex he’s had in a while. He wouldn’t say ever, because there are a few fond memories… well, okay, thinking back, maybe it was the hottest ever. That’s saying something, considering he’s tried some kinky shit.

What they’d done last night, hmmm… It has him reaching for his cock until he realizes he’s the only one in the room. Wait, where’s Cas? He sits up with a wince as he throws aside the towel from last night and reaches for his trousers. Pulling a shirt over his head, Dean steps out into the hallway, the rest of the house silent. Bare feet pad across smooth wood as he makes his way out to the living area, still no sign of Cas.

Sudden fear runs through Dean at the thought that maybe the other angels came to take Cas away. Rushing through the side door, he enters the kitchen to find Crowley and Cas seated at opposite ends of the table. Both of them wear somber expressions. It tempers his relief at finding Cas safe and still here.

“You two are just rays of sunshine.”

Crowley looks at Cas and says, “Do you want to tell him, or shall I?”

This can’t be anything good. “Tell me what?”

Sighing, Cas looks away.

“Fine,” Crowley grouses. “I’ll tell him.” He turns to face Dean. “Abaddon’s minions left a present on the doorstep overnight.”

“It was Meg,” Cas rasps.

Crowley hums. “Yes. Her neck was broken, and a message had been carved into her skin.”

And they probably chose her specifically to make a statement. Dean asks, “Well, what did it say?”

“Come to the town center by midday, or everyone dies.”

* * *

For a change, Sam is the last one to rise. Dean watches him stumble into the kitchen, only to take in their serious expressions and immediately straighten up. That’s his baby brother. Always there for others. It’s why Dean hates they have to tell him what’s going on, because he’ll want to be part of it. Dean would do everything possible to keep Sam out of this, but he knows that’s not going to happen.

By the time Sam’s filled in, Cain comes back in from his morning chores, and disposing the body. “So, boys,” Everyone turns to look at him. “Are we going to have any backup?”

Crowley contacts the demons he knows are still loyal, and Cas asks his sister for aid. After they know the size of their army, they magically seem to get along as they go huddle in a corner, before they both poof off. What the hell? Cain has a stash of weapons that’s impressive, and they make sure Dean and Sam are well equipped.

When Cas and Crowley return, Cas is wearing his angel armor, shining and perfect. Crowley carries a bundle of dark clothing, Hell’s crown perched on top. It turns Dean’s stomach to see it, thinking about what Abaddon has done to try to get her claws on it.

“What is _that_ doing here?” Dean pulls Crowley off to the side and hisses, “If Abaddon knows it’s here, there’ll be no stopping her!”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Crowley sets down the bundle, and lifts the crown. “Cain says he has a safe place for it, so I brought it after acquiring your new wardrobe.” He waves at the clothing. “Those are for you, by the way. Can't have our rogue prince going out looking like a vagabond.”

Crowley glances down at the black crown in his hands. “Are you sure you don’t want to maybe wear it into battle?” He lifts it up as if to place it on Dean’s head, and Dean recoils at the thought. He never wants that thing on his head again.

“Oh well,” Crowley sighs. “It seems you really can’t take the throne anymore after all.” With that, he turns and carries the crown out of the room.

Taking the pile of clothes to the bedroom, Dean sorts through it to find an outfit very similar to what he last wore in Hell. Even the boots. Except this time, there are no ruffles, and it’s all made of a supple leather. Leave it to Crowley to make a dramatic statement with clothing. While Dean gets dressed, he can feel the enchantments cast upon it. He would wager Crowley has made sure Dean is well armored. He just wishes he could have gotten something for Sam.

As he tightens his belt, Cas knocks on the door and calls, “Dean?”

“Come on in, Cas.” He spins in front of the fully armored angel, arms out. “What do you think?”

“I think you look very handsome, and those enchantments should shield you from most demonic attacks.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought” Stepping close to Cas, Dean thinks he looks pretty damn badass fully dressed up in his armor. “How long do you think it would take to get you out of all that?” Dean asks with a seductive smirk.

Cas closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. “That is something we don’t have time for now.” He opens his eyes. “However, there _is_ something I want to give you.”

“Oh?” Dean leans close, his breath ghosting across Cas’ lips. “What do you want to give me, Cas?”

Hand at the nape of Dean’s neck, Cas presses a quick, bruising kiss to his lips. “You are too distracting for your own good,” he rasps.

Backing away, Cas reaches into his armor and pulls out… a feather. It’s obviously one of his own, and is a beautiful, iridescent deep indigo, a little longer than his hand. The quill has two glass beads, one green and one blue slipped on it, and it has a loop of something white and woven. Is that… unicorn hair?

“Wow, Cas. That looks great.” Dean reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers across the downy feather, and he can feel the power it contains. “This is something special, isn’t it?” He suddenly remembers the one that he’s seen Cas wear almost everywhere.

Cas smiles softly down at the feather in his hand. “It’s a gift one gives as a memento of significant events. Anael gave me one when I was promoted to captain.” Cas holds the feather out for Dean to take. “Regardless of what happens today, I want you to remember that I love you.”

There’s a lump in Dean’s throat, and he swallows past it. “Cas,” he chokes out.

“I don’t expect a response, Dean.” Cas lifts the feather by the braided unicorn hair. “With this, I will always be with you.”

No, that’s not fair. Cas is giving something to remember him by, because he expects them to be separated after this. Well Dean’s not going to let that happen. He will graciously accept Cas’ gift, wear it into battle, kick some demon ass, and force the angels to see that Cas needs to stay with him.

Clearing his throat, Dean straightens. “Help me put it on?” He’s proud that he manages to make his voice even. Hell, he even manages some innuendo when Cas ties the feather to his belt.

* * *

The sun creeps higher in the sky, and they’re all ready to go. It turns out that Sam also got an upgrade, even if it is a priest’s cassock. It’s not the shapeless itchy thing Sam normally wears. This one has silver buttons down the front, and actually makes his brother look kind of badass. Crowley’s in his usual court attire, impeccably dressed as usual. Cain, he is dressed like an average farmer, sleeves rolled up at the elbows. The leather-wrapped First Blade tucked into his waistband announces that he’s so much more, as it radiates power now that it’s been reunited with its master.

Dean and Cain get transported by Crowley, and Cas takes Sam, where they meet up just outside of town. They spread out, walking shoulder to shoulder, Cain at the center as they stride into town. It’s eerily quiet, and as they get closer to the center, Dean’s sure they’re being watched by hundreds, if not thousands, of eyes.

When they reach the well that marks the town’s center, everyone has their hands on their weapons. It’s so quiet, they can hear the sound of their own breathing. There's the sound of laughter… Looking up, Dean sees Abaddon perched atop the constabulary roof.

As is her style, she’s dressed all in tight leather, hair pulled back into a neat bun. There’s blood on her hands and spattered on her face. “Well, well, well. You all came to my little party.” She glares at them. And you went running to Daddy Cain.”

Cain glares at her, the First Blade in his hand. “Come down here, you cowardly little wench!”

“Like I’m going to get anywhere near that detestable mandible you’re holding.”

Cain calls over his shoulder, “Castiel, would you kindly show the lady we mean business?”

Wings flapping into existence, Cas sends out a surge of Grace that radiates outward in a wave. It makes Abaddon flinch, but after the wave passes, she laughs again. “Was that supposed to hurt, little bird? Hmmm. I’ll make sure your wings are tacked on my wall when I’m through with you.”

With a snap of her fingers, Abaddon summons a horde of demon-possessed humans, clogging the streets.

Cain calls out, “Crowley, now!” and Crowley lets out a piercing whistle. Muted popping noises signal the arrival of summoned Hellhounds surrounding their small group. Above them, Abaddon pouts in distaste.

“Ugh, you brought the rotten puppies along, too.” She shrugs. “Not that it will matter. Ta-ta, I’m off to terrorize a small kingdom, and mount a unicorn’s head on my wall. Maybe I’ll place it in between your wings.”

With a wave of her hand, she turns, and… doesn’t go anywhere. She bows her head, fists clenched, and stays right on top of the thatched roof. “What did you do?!?” she screeches.

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The plan worked, it fucking worked. He hears the flap of wings, and in a stunning show of pink, white, and black, Anael lands on the lip of the well.

“Everything is in place,” she says, drawing her blade. “The circle is complete and nothing demonic may enter or leave.” She nods to Crowley. “My apologies.”

He shrugs. “A necessary evil.”

With another ear-splitting whistle, the hellhounds leap out into the middle of the mass of demons, while another throng of demons -on Crowley’s side- attacks from outside. Anael signals for the angels of her garrison to advance upon the town as well. Abaddon screams in rage, and dashes down the other side of the roof. Cain takes off after her, and the battle is on.

They do what they can to save as many innocents as possible, but the numbers are great, and the fighting is fierce. Sam stays near the well, blessing the water and splashing any demon that comes close, chanting a nonstop exorcism. Dean and Cas fight side by side, and it’s as if they’ve trained for this, their movements coordinated.

As they whittle their way through Abaddon’s horde, Dean witnesses the astonishing sight of her black-clad form, hair loose and waving, as she’s hurled over their heads. Thrown back to the center of the town, she lands near the well, and gets splashed with a ladle of holy water, courtesy of Sam. Eyes beetle-black, skin bubbling and steaming, she faces Cain, who parts the throng with his mere presence.

Cain rushes in and slashes at her with the blade, scoring her stomach. Hands claw at his face, but he rams the blade into her chest. Little bolts of electricity erupt from Abaddon’s body, and a swirling wind whips around her and Cain as she screams her last breath. When it’s all over, Abaddon is a steaming heap on the ground, and Cain kneels in the dirt, head bowed, the gore-covered First Blade clutched in his hand.

Around them, demons release the bodies they’ve been using, Hellhounds chasing their smoky forms. Crowley sets fire to a spell-bag, reciting an incantation. When he’s finished, all that’s left is their small group, the surrounding angels, and the bodies of numerous humans that may or may not still be alive. Angels rush in to heal all the wounded they can, and some transport them back to their own homes, as not all of them were local villagers.

The rush of victory pumping through his veins, Dean sweeps Cas into his arms and pulls him into a deep kiss, hands buried in the feathers at the base of his wings. Cas kisses back just as passionately, one hand stroking through Dean’s hair. They don’t come up for breath until Sam coughs awkwardly.

Dean keeps an arm wrapped firmly around Cas’ waist as he watches Anael approach Cain, the leather wrap in her hand. Wings tucked in at her back, she leans over the man.

“We appreciate your service, and wish we could lessen your burden.”

“It has waited so long to taste blood again, it yearns for it and I cannot contain its rage.”

She places a hand on his shoulder. “Then let this at least be the burden we may carry for you.” Wrapping the blade with the spelled leather, Anael carefully pries Cain’s fingers from the handle. As soon as the blade is wrapped up, Anael presses a kiss to Cain’s forehead, and whispers something that Dean can’t hear. But the man nods, and thanks her.

As Anael approaches them, Dean tightens his hold around Cas. She looks at them with pity in her eyes, and he hates her. He feels one of Cas’ wings wrap around his shoulders, notes her look of surprise.

“Castiel, did you…?”

“Yes, sister, I did.”

She closes her eyes as if in pain. “You realize it will never be allowed.”

“It’s too late. What’s done is done.”

Dean honestly has absolutely no clue what’s going on right now. He wouldn’t be surprised if half the conversation’s happening in their heads like that one time. He leans over and whispers in Cas’ ear, “So can we go home, now?”

Before Cas can answer, there’s the rush of wings, and more angels appear in front of them. One is stately, with dark skin and dove grey wings. With a deep, booming voice, the angel says, “Castiel, seraph of Thursday. You are charged with multiple instances of willingly and wantonly breaking angelic law. You are to be taken into custody, and a trial will take place after interrogation. Do you understand these charges?”

Cas’ voice is weak and he barely makes the words come out, “I understand.”

This isn’t happening. It’s a bad dream, and soon Dean will wake up with Cas’ wings wrapped around him. “No, Cas! You haven’t done anything wrong!” Dean turns to the stoic angel. “He helped save everybody, and this is how you repay him? What did he do that was so bad, anyway?”

“Dean, no.” Cas’ voice wavers.

“The charges are, as follows. Failure to report an incident involving a denizen of Hell. Feeding said denizen angelic blood. Harboring said denizen and protecting it with holy wards. Willingly concealing oneself from the Host. False communications with a superior. Willful failure to return from a mission….”

Dean feels Cas sag against him. “Please stop,” Cas chokes out, but the angel continues to list offenses.

“Willful insubordination. Fraternization with humans, and with a denizen of Hell. Carnal relations with a human and denizen of Hell…”

“I said _stop_!” Cas sobs, burying his face in Dean’s shoulder.

“Cas, we can fight this. They can’t just—”

“Dean.” There’s so much feeling in that one word, one syllable, the calling of his name. “Ever since I saved you, I knew it would come to this. I must stand trial for my sins, and face whatever punishment they bestow.”

“But it’s not _fair_ , Cas!” Dean’s voice cracks, and he searches Cas’ eyes, hoping for some kind of reprieve.

“You of all people know how unfair life can be, Dean. It may not be fair, but it is justice.”

Dean can feel the sting behind his eyes, the trembling of his jaw. “Please don’t leave me, Cas.”

Cas places kisses on Dean’s eyelids and whispers, “Remember I am always with you.”

With that, two angels come and pull Cas away.

Later, Dean will remember how he had to be restrained, how he cried out for them to not take Cas, screaming himself hoarse. Later, he’ll remember how he bruised his fists on Anael’s armor as he cursed and cried until he was exhausted, only to have her heal his wounds.

But now, all Dean feels is pain.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last piece of art in this chapter!

Castiel sits in a prison cell, stripped of his armor. His entire world is shades of grey. It doesn’t matter that the stone walls are iridescent shades of gold, or that the small barred window looks out to a sky with a swirling, multi-hued aurora. Without Dean, everything is grey.

How long has he been here? He’s not sure. There is no night and day, and the prison strips his Grace, leaving him unable to accurately mark the passage of time. All he knows is he has been interrogated endlessly, there had been the torture of having his flight feathers savagely torn out, and he has not yet had an official trial.

After first being placed in his cell, Anael had come to visit him. She let him know that Dean had been safely sent to Charlie’s kingdom, and Castiel knew he would be in good hands there. Anael had asked him why he’d bonded with Dean. He told her there was no other choice.

Perhaps everyone else was right, that he was somehow broken, created wrong. His dark wings a portent of his inevitable downfall. Because from that first moment he’d seen Dean, even before he’d fed Dean his blood, he could feel… something… drawing them together.

“You gave him a feather.”

“Yes.”

“Does he understand the full meaning?”

“I told him it was a memento. Although I did tell him I loved him.”

“So he doesn’t know that it is given only between family or bonded.”

Castiel shook his head, and Anael sighed. He admonished her to never tell him. Before she left, Anael swore she would do whatever she could to help him. They haven’t been allowed to speak since.

His wings ache, and he stretches them carefully. Without his Grace, the open wounds where his feathers have been removed will not heal, and they ooze a thin bloodied plasma. He daubs at the wounds with a torn-off piece of shirt, glad they cannot get infected in Heaven. With a sigh, he settles on the narrow wooden pallet that is the only furniture in the cell. Facing a wall, wings stretched behind, he closes his eyes and remembers.

* * *

There is movement outside his cell, and it is the guards again. Castiel stands up and faces the door. They place shackles on his wrists, and bind his wings. He is led past the interrogation chamber, past the room where his feathers had been plucked, and down a long hallway. At the end are tall, arched double doors, and he can hear a great many angels on the other side. Ah, so the trial has come at last. He stands before the doors, waiting to be let in and to know his fate.

When the doors open, the angels on the other side fall silent. He’s led into a blinding white auditorium, banks of angels rising on either side, the archangels seated on a stage before him. Shackled to a podium, Castiel stands on a small platform, Anael on one side of him, Uriel on the other.

It hurts to see Uriel is the one who will be the one arguing against him, although no surprise since he’s the one that came for him after the battle. They were friends once. Anael gives him a small smile, and he’s glad to see her. He just hopes that her position as Colonel isn’t jeopardized by being his defense.

Up on the stage, the archangels stare down at him. Gabriel gives him a wink, but his expression looks grim. Raphael doesn’t even look at him. Michael, in the center, rises.

“We are here today to witness and pass judgment upon Castiel, seraph of Thursday.” Michael gestures to Uriel. “Please recite the list of charges.”

With each charge called out in a booming voice, Castiel’s tattered wings droop. The angels in attendance murmur or gasp as each new offense is called. Not allowed to speak himself, Anael mounts his defense, trying to show the story at an angle with him working to undermine Hell’s power base. But Uriel counters with Castiel’s carnal relations with Dean. He tries to tune out Uriel’s words, he makes it sound _wrong_ , obscene.

Disgust radiates from the angels gathered. But one voice shouts out among the others, “If carnal relations are a punishable offense, then he isn’t the only one who deserves punishment!”

It’s Balthazar. Castiel raises his head, spotting those brown wings, and focuses on the cocky angel standing to defend him. Balthazar says, “Everyone knows my reputation, but I also know that there are other angels who have had dalliances.”

“This goes beyond mere carnal relations,” another angel calls out. Castiel is shocked to see it’s Hester. She has always been loyal, and her next words hurt. “He has shared a part of himself with the Prince of Hell, lain with the ruler of our enemies! Such contact has corrupted him! He is as good as fallen!”

Other angels start to speak, and the noise levels rise until Michael calls out, “That’s enough!”

The auditorium falls silent, and Michael raises his hands, brilliant white wings flaring behind him. “We have heard both sides of the matter. Is there anything else that must be known before we make our decision?”

Anael says, “Dean has refused the Crown of Hell, and is now living among normal humans.” She turns to look at Castiel, adding, “And Castiel has given him a bonding feather.”

Surprised murmuring erupts from the auditorium, and Castiel can’t believe Anael mentioned the feather. Does she have a plan? She smiles at him before turning to face the archangels. Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel rise, and leave via a small door at the back of the stage. Now they wait.

While they wait, the other angels mill about. Anael stays by Castiel’s side, and they talk quietly. “Why did you mention the feather?” he asks.

“Because they needed to see the depth of your love. Trust me brother.”

“I do, sister.” He sighs. “I was shocked to hear Hester call out against me.”

Anael gives him a piteous smile. “You truly are oblivious.”

“What?”

“Hester has been so loyal to you because she hoped to be the one to bond with you.”

Blinking in surprise, Castiel looks into the crowd and picks out Hester’s teal and yellow wings, her blonde hair. He had no idea.

* * *

It takes some time before the stage’s door opens. As soon as it does, angels shuffle back to their seats. Michael walks out first, followed by Raphael, then Gabriel. They don’t sit, but remain standing, facing Castiel. Michael’s face gives no hint as to his sentence. Raphael looks down at him like he is filth, and Gabriel merely winks at him again before looking away.

“We have reached a decision.” Michael addresses Castiel, “Are you prepared to receive your punishment?”

Castiel stands straight, bound wings lifted in as dignified pose as possible. “I am prepared.”

“You sentence is thus: You are to have your wings and Grace removed, and are thus banished as a human. As such, you are to live out your life under human rule.”

Raphael speaks, “No angel is in any way allowed to directly help or harm Castiel. Any such angel shall be punished.”

Both Michael and Raphael look at Gabriel, who stands there a moment before adding, “However, he may receive occasional visits from friends and family upon approval.” Raphael glares at him. “But yeah, no _direct_ help.” He winks at Castiel again, who is beginning to wonder if Gabriel merely has something in his eye.

* * *

 

Dean stands at his window, watching the snow fall. With a warm fur around his shoulders and steaming drink in hand, he sighs. It is December, and everything is white. While having recovered from the symptoms of withdrawal some time ago, he still aches deep in his chest. Only a trusted few know that’s because he misses Castiel.

August had been the hardest. He had been despondent and listless before the last of Castiel’s blood had worked itself out of his system. But when no more angel blood was available, he was wracked with convulsions, and a deadly fever. If it hadn’t been for the unicorn’s healing touch, he might have perished. Some days he wonders if that would have been for the best, instead of this constant emptiness he feels inside.

Sam has come to stay, and he is now the royal physician. Dean’s glad the kid doesn’t wear monk dresses anymore, although he misses teasing Sam about it until he’d cry, “It’s a _cassock_!” There’s been a mild fever sweeping the castle lately, and Sam’s been busy treating those with symptoms, and trying to prevent it from spreading further. Kid better take care of himself, or he’ll end up getting sick too.

Dean’s groom knocks on the door before peeking inside. “It’s almost time to eat, your Highness, shall I prepare your clothes?”

“I think I’m going to take lunch in my room today, Garth. Please apologize to the king and princess for me.”

“Yes sir. I will bring your meal shortly.”

Dean hears the click of the door shutting, and he glances at the feather in his hand. It’s still beautiful, in spite of all the time he’s handled it, stroking its iridescence, or having fallen asleep clutching it in his hand. He used to swear he could feel Cas with him if he concentrated hard enough, but that seemed to fade out a month or two ago. He still carries it with him wherever he goes, a memento of what he’s lost.

_‘I will always be with you.’_

Dean swallows and takes a deep breath.

* * *

It’s February, and snowing again. All the eastern kingdoms have been hit hard this winter, with unrelenting snow and cold. Their kingdom hasn’t suffered as badly thanks to the unicorn’s magical influence, but even so, the outer villages have been impacted greatly. As the snow grew higher, the residents of their kingdom began migrating towards Middleton and the castle. Luckily, thanks to the Knight’s Run, the village is equipped to handle large groups. Now, if they could just keep their citizens from freezing to death.

The elderly, very young, and weak have been settled inside the castle’s walls, where they are protected from the worst of the elements. It’s a miracle that their food stores have held up so well. Today, Dean’s leading a hunt in the north woods. The meat they bring in today will be used in nourishing soups, and will help their people survive.

Dean smiles, hauling himself up into the saddle astride his horse. It’s been a while since he’s done more than spar with the knights. Perhaps some fresh air will be good for him. He strokes the feather ties to his belt for luck, and takes up the reins, guiding his horse to where the hunting party is gathering.

* * *

 

It’s cold in the back of the wagon, and all the people huddle together for warmth. Most haven’t been able to have a proper bath for months, and the stench of humanity is strong. But Castiel’s nose has grown accustomed to the odor, and he wraps his arms tighter around the child shivering in his lap, the motion of the moving wagon rocking them to sleep.

It was late October when Castiel was first deposited on Earth as a human, with only the belongings he’d had with him before the battle to defeat Abaddon. Nowhere near Dean’s kingdom, he began trying to make his way in the proper direction. Thankfully, they were still in the midst of harvest, and Castiel was able to find work and shelter. But as it grew colder, there was less work to be had, and Castiel found himself travelling as a beggar, sleeping by back doors or sneaking into barns to stay warm at night.

And then the snow had started. While Castiel knows the angels aren’t allowed to directly bring him harm, he wonders if Raphael is the one has called for so much snow. Punish a large portion of humanity in order to make one suffer. It sounds like something Raphael would do.

As the unrelenting snow grew deeper, with no sign of stopping, whole villages began to make their way towards the seats of each kingdom. Travelling with these groups who shared everything they had, Castiel made his way slowly across the land. He knew he was getting closer when rumors of a castle-adjacent village openly accepting people regardless of kingdom began circulating.  

He wakes to the sound of a large crowd, and peeks in between the wagon’s coverings to see they’re in Middleton. The snow isn’t very deep here, and he wonders if the unicorn has been helping keep it at bay. There’s an efficient system in place, and one of the guards takes the names of new arrivals and what village they’re from. Then they’re assigned a place to stay, the amount of large tents just outside the village having doubled since the summer’s contest.

Before he can get registered, Castiel is overcome with a terrible cough. One of the things about becoming human is also being susceptible to illness. A cough had been spreading through the group he’s been travelling with, and he’d picked it up early, unable to shake it. There has been little to drink other than melted snow during their journey here, and Castiel has had no access to healing herbs.

Helping hands lead him to a separate tent, where he is seated in front of a steaming pot smelling of mint, and is handed a cup of delicious broth. Soon the cough subsides, and a young woman wearing a cloth around her nose and mouth approaches him.

“How long have you had the cough?”

Blinking and taking a closer look, he recognizes Johanna. Clearing his throat, he rasps out, “For a couple weeks.”

She nods and asks, “Have you had any treatment?”

Castiel shakes his head. She asks for his name, and without thinking uses the one he’s been traveling as, Steve. She nods, writes something down on a piece of paper, and hands him another steaming cup. “Drink this. It doesn’t taste the best, but it should help with that cough.”

He accepts the cup and she wanders off to deal with the next person in need of aid. It’s no surprise she didn't recognize him. His hair has grown out, and is now hanging matted in front of his face. He also hasn’t had the luxury of shaving, but his beard keeps his face warm. Scratching through the rough hairs on his cheek, Castiel remembers the sight of Dean with a beard, the ginger cast it had in sunlight.

Sighing, Castiel takes a sip of the strange smelling decoction in his cup. He’s so close to Dean right now, and nobody even knows who he is. He’d started using a different name when people would hear his name and talk about the tale of bravery being spread throughout the lands about a brave prince and his comrades who vanquished a demon horde. They knew his name, but refused to believed the vagrant before them could possibly be the same person, and would cast him out as a liar. So he changed his name, giving up his last tie to his angelic past.

Maybe it’s for the best that nobody recognizes him. For all he knows, Dean has forgotten him, and is happy. The thought creates a bittersweet ache in his chest, and he begins to cough again.

Castiel is with a group that is transported to the castle grounds. There, he’s given a pallet upon which to sleep, until he recovers. After only a couple of days, Castiel has completely gotten over his cough, and he helps with the work, learning how to prepare the medicine, and distributing it. He knows he will be sent back down to Middleton soon, his pallet needed for others who are sick.

Offering to carry a load of linens to be washed, Castiel is allowed deeper into the castle. After depositing his load, he can’t help but slip off to go visit the unicorn. He slips past the guards when they’re distracted. The stables are warm, and there are horses in the stalls next to the unicorn’s.

These must be the royal horses, as they look well-cared for, blankets across their backs, stalls full of sweet-smelling hay. There’s a beautiful dappled grey, a chestnut who flares his nostrils at him, and a pure black horse that completely ignores him. Next to the unicorn’s stall is a beautiful black mare, a snip of white on her nose, with silvery white markings below the ankles. She nickers, tossing her mane.

Castiel brings her a handful of oats, which she gladly accepts. This is odd. He’s never seen this horse before, yet she’s welcoming him like a friend. He is nudged in the shoulder, and looks into the deep eyes of the unicorn.

“Hello there.” Sharing the oats with the unicorn, he uses his free hand to pet between the black mare’s eyes. He’s filled with such a sense of _belonging_ , it almost makes him cry.

A noise at the door draws his attention, and he quickly slips into the unicorn’s stall. Huddling behind the wall, he watches as Sam enters the stable. Castiel is glad the young man looks so well. He’s no longer wearing a cassock, and looks dressed to go out into the elements.

Sam stops at the pure black horse’s stall, giving him a pat. “Hey there, Charger. Ready to go for a ride?” The horse tosses his head, shoving it against Sam’s chest. He glances around, and Castiel ducks.

Sam steps closer to the unicorn, and stops at the horse with the white nose marking. “Impala, has Dean been sneaking in here to feed you extra oats again?”

Dean. That horse is Dean’s. He hears Sam shift coming over to the unicorn. “You going to tell me if Dean’s been feeding you guys extra, Celestun?”

Sam’s head comes into view, and Castiel holds his breath. Blinking, Sam turns his head and sees Castiel crouched there. “How did you get in here?”

Scrambling to stand, Castiel bows forward, murmuring apologies. He tries to slip past Sam, but a large hand wraps around his upper arm. “Hey, wait a minute.” Castiel is turned around, and Sam looks into his eyes. His eyebrows scrunch up, forming a crease. “Castiel?”

With a whimper, Castiel stops struggling. Sam searches his face, a smile growing into a wide grin. “It really is you! What are you doing hiding here? Why do you have a beard? Oh, man, Dean’ll be so happy to see you! What took you so long, anyway?”

Sam’s enthusiasm drags Castiel out through the courtyard and towards the castle proper. Panic sets in, and Castiel steers them towards the servant’s quarters. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t intend to be seen. Please let me go.”

“What? Why? Cas, we’ve all been missing you and wondering what happened. Come on, let’s get you a room and into some clothes that aren’t full of holes.”

“Sam.” Oh, why is this so difficult? “I am no longer an angel, fallen. I am not worth a room, or nice clothes. Please, let me go so I can join the other refugees.”

Sam’s mouth hardens, and he drags Castiel into the kitchens. There, he forces him to eat a bowlful of hearty stew and a buttered roll. forcing a cup of warm spiced wine into Castiel’s hands, Sam says, “I don’t care what the angels say, Cas. Dean misses you. He’s _been_ missing you. He won’t ever let go of that damn feather. You don’t want me to take you to a room, fine. But at least stay here where it’s warm, and let me get you something else to wear, have a warm bath.”

Full of warm food, the wine having a somewhat soporific effect, Castiel stops fighting Sam. He still refuses a guest room, but agrees to at least use the servant quarters for a bath. A young man appears to assist him, bringing a change of clothes. The young man argues with him over the necessity of heating water, “You’re not getting a cold on my watch.”

He turns his back so Castiel can get undressed. “You must be someone special. I haven’t seen Sam this excited since Amelia’s dog had puppies.”

Castiel doesn’t respond, and slips into the warm water. Oh, this feels so good. The young man asks if he can take his clothes, and Castiel agrees. With his arms full of the ragged clothes Castiel had been wearing, he says, “Name’s Garth, by the way. You better be here when I get back, or _I’ll_ be the one in trouble!”

Castiel nods, and begins scrubbing his skin as soon as the door is closed. Garth returns with a comb, and insists on untangling Castiel’s hair. He even offers to wash Castiel’s back, but is given a firm no. After Castiel finishes his bath and is dried and dressed, Garth follows him back to the kitchens. There’s a side room with a smaller hearth they settle in, possibly a concession on Sam’s part.

“Sam said you might like a shave. Are you sure you wouldn’t like one? I’ve got the steadiest hands in three kingdoms.”

Scratching at his chin, Castiel considers it. While the beard has kept his face warm, it does become unbearably itchy the longer he goes without a bath. He nods, and Garth says he’ll be right back with his supplies.

Garth is indeed adept with the shaving blade, and Castiel is clean-shaven within minutes. It was requested he remove his clean shirt to avoid getting it covered with hair, and he’s had a towel draped over his shoulders. Garth cleans up, replacing the towel with a fresh one, and tells Castiel to wash his face with the bowlful of herb scented water he leaves behind. With a bow, Garth steps out of the room.

The water Castiel splashes on his face is soothing, and he pats his cheeks, feeling the smooth skin. Draping the towel over his shoulders, Castiel debates what to do with the water. It seems a shame to just pour it out after just using it to rinse off.

A flurry of activity outside the door catches his attention, and he listens to hear Dean’s voice teasing the cooks. “But I was told there’d be _pie_. You’re hiding it from me, aren’t you?”

The breath catches in Castiel’s throat. It feels like forever since he’s heard that voice. Heart aching, he rests his head on the doorframe and listens as Dean disrupts the kitchen on the other side.

* * *

 

They’re screwing with him, he knows they are. First was Sam, bouncing off the walls, grinning like a maniac, but not saying a word. Then Garth, who kept randomly disappearing all afternoon. When he’d finally caught up to the guy, he made some excuse about being needed in the kitchens. Before Dean could get much more out of him, Sam had shown up saying there was something special for him in the kitchens, and Garth was just helping keep it secret.

If there’s something they’re hiding from him in the kitchens, it has to be pie. He goes down immediately to investigate, and the cooks all look at him like he’s crazy. He’s gotta admit, it doesn’t smell like pie, and all he can see are the pots they use for the endless supply of soup and stew that is distributed to the people who have come for refuge.

But this doesn’t deter him from looking. He pokes through the baskets of bread, opens pickling barrels, snoops through cabinets. Then, he heads into the smaller kitchens, expecting to find a table full of pies. While he does interrupt a baker while she’s up to her elbows in dough and flour, it’s for regular bread, not pie crust.

Frustrated, Dean pulls open another door, and someone almost falls over on him. A familiar scent combined with the tang of shaving balm hits his nose, and then all he can see is blue eyes.

“Cas?”

His hair is longer, and he’s thinner, paler. But Dean would know that strong chin, those wide lips, and hooded, incredibly blue eyes anywhere. He stands there stunned, hands on Cas’ shoulders, taking in the draped towel, his still-slightly-damp hair. Dean could slap himself as the first words out of his mouth are, “What are you doing in the _kitchens_?”

Cas backs out of his grasp, looking away, and pulls the towel tight around his shoulders. His hands are shaking as he reaches for a shirt. What the hell’s going on? Dean pulls the shirt from Cas’ hands. Something’s wrong, and Dean’s chest aches. Placing a hand on Cas’ cheek, he turns it to face him.

“Hey, Cas, what’s going on? Did the other angels do something to you?”

The crease between Cas’ brows and the way he refuses to meet his eyes says yes. Unable to hold back, Dean wraps his arms around Cas, feeling his bony shoulders. He buries his nose in Cas’ hair, breathing in the smell of soap, and Cas. It’s a little different, less breezy, more earthy. Letting out a shuddering sigh, Dean whispers, “I’ve missed you.”

That seems to loosen something in Cas, who lets out a sob and sags against Dean, wrapping his arms around his waist. Dean pets his hair, whispers soothing things, rocks him from side to side. He doesn’t know how, but Cas is back, and Dean is never letting go again.

While Cas cries himself hoarse on his shoulder, Dean starts tearing up too, and thinks they should sit down for this. There’s a bunch of bags of potatoes, and he settles down next to them, leaning against one of the lumpy sacks. Eventually, Cas pulls back, eyes red and face flushed. Dean takes a corner of the towel to gently wipe away his tears. That’s when Cas looks up and sees that Dean’s been crying, too.

“No,” he whispers, voice rough. He wipes at the tears on Dean’s face.

“Hey,” Dean grabs Cas’ hand, pressing a kiss to the palm. “Talk to me.”

And Cas does. He tells Dean that he’s been made human as punishment, and how he’s survived during his journey here. Dean’s convinced one of the winged dicks than never liked Cas made sure to place him far enough away to make it difficult on purpose. Then Dean tells Cas about what it was like during his fever, about how much he missed him, about how he kept his feather on him always. As proof, he pulls that feather free from where it’s tied at his waist, and shows Cas.

“Because you’ll always with me, right?”

Cas pulls him in for a sweet kiss, and oh, Dean wants to melt. They sit snuggled up like that, sharing kisses for a long while before Cas falls asleep. He’s leaning on a sack of sweet potatoes, his head resting against the wall.

Dean wraps his arms around Cas, and settles his head on his chest, listening to Cas’ human heart beat. Cas never did put on a shirt, and the towel he’s had draped across his shoulders slips, showing part of his still muscular but way too thin and pale torso. Dean notices the mole just above Cas’ nipple, and smiles softly before closing his eyes.

* * *

 

Charlie screeched in excitement when Sam had told her Castiel was back. She’d insisted on seeing him immediately, but Sam held her back. “Something’s wrong, Charlie. I don’t know what the angels did to him, but he acted like he didn’t even want to see _Dean_.”

No, this isn’t right, she thought, because Cas and Dean, they were just meant to be. So with Gilda at her side, she paced with impatience waiting to hear something more. Eventually, Gilda steps out, determined to get some work done, leaving Charlie to fret.

It’s just before supper when Gilda beckons her downstairs and pulls her towards the kitchens. They meet Sam there, and he places a finger to his lips, quietly slipping to the door of one of the smaller side rooms. He opens the door, and Charlie can see Dean curled up on the floor, arms wrapped around Castiel. They’re both sleeping, breaths in time with each other. It’s so sweet, and Charlie frowns when Sam closes the door.

“Leave them alone for now, Charlie. It’s been hard on them both.”

* * *

The next morning, Charlie slips back down to the kitchens to see Dean and Castiel smiling at each other, seated in the big kitchen, Dean feeding Cas bites of buttered roll. With a squeak, Charlie rushes over, wrapping her arms around Cas, admonishing him to never leave again.

“Not if I can help it,” Dean says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small epilogue after this.  
> Also, if you want to see what I had in mind for human Cas, Google images of Misha Collins in "Moving Alan".


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small epilogue to finish things

The snows finally stop toward the end of February, and March comes with flooding rivers and people slowly moving back to their villages to prepare for spring.

It has been a slow process for Castiel to adjust to being back in the castle, being with Dean. He had thought they would have to hide their relationship, but Charlie set him straight by kissing Gilda in full sight of her father. While the king had grudgingly accepted that he was not going to have any grandchildren, he was glad that Dean was the type of man to not force himself on his daughter.

And then, after Castiel’s return, it was revealed that they were in the same relationship as Charlie was with Gilda. The king had insisted that while he didn’t care who slept with whom, that Dean was still Charlie’s legal husband, and thus was to help her rule when he stepped down.

“Because I don’t want to be signing papers when I’m too old to even read them,” he’d said, winking at Dean.

As spring progressed, the castle servants grew accustomed to seeing Castiel around Dean as much as they had Charlie and Gilda. Turns out that neither relationship had been very secret in the first place, except from the king. Except now, the servants knew to be very careful when they entered anywhere near where the prince or princess had been spotted, because if they were with their partners, you never knew what you were going to see.

* * *

It’s early May again, and they’re having a picnic out on one of the northern stepped terraces. There’s a garden full of flowering herbs, and a warm breeze drifts their fragrance toward the group seated upon cushions in the grass. The unicorn Celestun can be seen racing through the trees at the edge of the forest.

Sam had insisted on not having a large party, so instead they enjoy finger foods and sweets out under the bright sun. While they’re eating, Crowley shows up at the edge of the forest, the unicorn eyeing him skeptically. Dean heads down and lets him past the wards, and they discuss how Crowley has been dealing with having taken up the Crown of Hell.

“Considering I was the prince’s right-hand demon for over twenty years and practically ran Hell by myself anyway, it’s not that much different.”

Castiel has recovered his muscle mass under Dean’s watchful eye, and now has to worry about the man overfeeding him. He pushes away another bite of food that’s being offered, and hears the familiar sound of beating wings. Everyone looks up to see Anael and Balthazar land a short distance away, tucking away their wings much to Charlie’s dismay.

Castiel gets up to greet them, and receives enthusiastic hugs from both. He asks them how they received permission to visit.

“Annie here convinced Michael that we should check on the status of the former Prince of Hell,” Balthazar says, eyeballing the spread of food.

“Also” Anael shakes her head at him. “We’ve come to offer blessing on Sam’s anniversary of his birth, of happiness and health for him, his friends, and family.”

“But that’s against the terms of my punishment!” says Castiel.

There’s the sound of flapping wings again, and Gabriel appears. “You’re not allowed to receive any _direct_ help, Cas-Cas. Words chosen carefully.” Gabriel doesn’t bother putting away his golden wings as he settles near the sweets, and Charlie practically salivates over them while he occupies himself with tartlets.

The day is warm, the sun is shining, and a sweet breeze blows across their little group. Castiel’s heart is full, and he sits next to Dean, content. Dean leans close placing a kiss on his lips, and Castiel is glad that he saved the Prince of Hell from drowning in a small lake just a little over a year ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for making it through the whole story!  
> I hope you found it worth your time.  
> Also feel free to go visit the [art masterpost over on tumblr](http://crystaljensen.tumblr.com/post/137402681453/reverse-bang-2015-holy-blood-this-is-the-art-for) to take another gander at all the amazing art for this story created by Milchtee/Casterelle!
> 
> Please tell us what you think!


End file.
